Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey
by Rabid Raccoons
Summary: Sequel to Perception Deception. J. Everett Tuttle, Audrey Montague and other assorted villains continue to elude detection and terrorize our boys. Delicious.
1. Chapter 1: 20 200

**A/N: Welcome to a continuation of the **_**Perception Deception**_** trilogy. Readers should re-familiarize themselves with the first story, **_**Perception Deception**_**, to fully enjoy the following experience.**

_**Disclaimer, Applicable to Entire Story:**__ In the case of fanfiction, the author(s) will usually give a disclaimer saying that the author(s) of the fanfiction do not, in any way, profit from the story and that all creative rights to the characters belong to their original creator(s); in the Numb3rs universe, those creator(s) are Cheryl Heuton and Nick Falacci._

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 1: 20/200**

Charlie stood in line at the deli, smiling. He had even caught himself humming during the brief walk from the taxi to the restaurant.

The last several months contained negatives; that much was certain. Finding himself on the run with Don, leaving his brand new fiancée behind, was never how he intended to spend his summer vacation. Pneumonia, a broken arm, and serious eye injuries hadn't made the list either. And of course, the fact that J. Everett Tuttle and Audrey Montague had so far avoided being linked to the electronic funds transfer fraud that sent the brothers Eppes underground in the first place - that was a hard pill to swallow. In truth, Charlie was still trying to connect some dots, make enough connections, and present to the authorities the unmitigated proof of Tuttle's involvement. Don seemed to have moved on, though, and Charlie would die before he would worry Amita over this case again - so he was keeping his research to himself, for the time-being.

Despite the negatives, Charlie was feeling happy, today. He felt...lighter, and quite literally. It was almost Halloween. When the new school year had begun a month ago, Charlie had received unwelcome news from his orthopedic physician. The cast had been due to come off his arm the same week school started, but an x-ray had shown that the fracture was not sufficiently healed. Charlie had been surprised; true, he had experienced more pain for a longer period of time than he had really expected - he had even been forced to refill his tramadol prescription - but he hadn't been expecting to lug the cast around for another four weeks.

In retrospect, however, the cast had been somewhat fortuitous. His smile faded as he wondered what he would use for an excuse now. It had been easy to convince people that his balance was adversely affected by the bulky cast; when his compromised eyesight occasionally caused him to veer off-course (on at least two occasions, he had walked right into a wall); the casted arm was a ready scapegoat. Now that the doctor had finally removed the cast, Charlie wasn't sure how to handle those awkward moments.

He placed his order and began to smile again as he waited for it to be filled. Maybe he wouldn't walk into any more walls. As of two weeks before, the gas bubbles inserted to help his retinas reattach had been completely absorbed in both eyes. Vision in his left eye was already 20/60, and improving rapidly; Charlie's own theory was that the left eye was trying to compensate for an obviously weaker right eye. Well, more than weak – he actually could see very little out of his right eye, but he was trying to be optimistic. The doctors had told him that the right eye, after sustaining two injuries, would take longer to heal. He tried to do as much of his own work as possible, but his eyes tired quickly. Amita was always willing to help, but Charlie did not want her to know how marred his vision still was, so he was relying much more heavily on his TAs. Charlie's ophthalmologist said that vision correction would be prescribed when the visual acuity numbers stayed the same for two months in a row; until then...well; Charlie didn't need two perfect eyes to know how beautiful Amita was, or to understand how happy she made him.

Besides, he found it a little amusing, in one way. Once again, he found himself waiting on the numbers.

**...**

Don pushed the rolling chair back a few inches from the desk and suppressed a groan as he rose to his full height. Paperwork - even virtual paperwork; it was the bane of his existence. If he had not been sitting at his desk for so long, his knees would not be protesting now when he stood, and he would not have to hide the fact that he was Just. Getting. Old. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, looking over the cubicle dividers toward Colby, who was still punching at his computer's keyboard with a scowl on his face, and David, who was standing near the printer, apparently waiting for a hard copy of his report. Liz was on vacation, and Nikki was on loan to the Sacramento field office, which had been hit hard by the H1N1 virus. "You guys up for lunch?" he asked.

David smiled in his direction. "Always," he answered, gathering his report and heading back to his desk.

Colby glanced up, harried. "What?"

Don laughed. "Looks like you need a break, Granger." He opened the top drawer of his desk and reached for his car keys. "Let's get out of here for awhile, guys."

Colby still didn't understand that lunch was involved, but he didn't have to be asked twice to abandon his report. He depressed the _Save_ button and stood just as the elevator _dinged_ to signal an arrival. "Sold," he responded.

The three men met in the corridor between their desks, then headed for the elevator, Don in the lead. As he rounded a slight curve, however, he was confronted by the jack-o-lantern grin of his brother. A bulging take-out bag from the deli just down the street - a favorite lunchtime haunt of the agents - hung on one of Charlie's arms; he balanced a cardboard drink tray rather precariously. He seemed relieved to see them. "Hey," he greeted. "A little help, here?"

Colby surged forward like the ex-linebacker he was. The tray contained one soda, and three large cups of coffee. Granger reached for the soda. "Tell me you brought me Dr. Pepper," he ordered. "Even if it's not true."

Charlie laughed. "Take it, Colby; I didn't forget. Don, David, can you guys grab two of the coffees?"

Don and David coordinated their efforts, leaving Charlie holding just his own cup. Don tried to get a peek into the bag. "What's in there?"

Charlie let his brother remove the bag from his arm. "Everybody's favorites," he answered. "One roast beef, one pastrami and Swiss, one turkey, one cream cheese and avocado...four pasta salads, and a dozen fresh chocolate chip cookies, from Dad."

Colby licked his lips even as he crinkled his nose. "Avocado and cream cheese," he muttered, shaking his head. "Amita is going to make you a vegetarian. I just know it."

The group snickered, and Charlie protested. "Trust me; I don't think I'll ever give up red meat." He seemed to redden. "She _has_ broadened my horizons..."

Don started to lead the agents and his brother to the lunch room. "Too much information," he teased, passing Charlie. "What's the occasion? You just barely caught us."

Charlie fell into step on Don's right side, sipping at his steaming cup of coffee. He was tempted to close his eyes in bliss, but he had a hard enough time seeing where he was going when he had them open. He held up his cast-free arm and wiggled his fingers. "It's off," he announced. "I thought I was early enough to catch you guys - you told me last night that you'd be catching up on paperwork all morning."

Don arched an eyebrow and smiled. "Hey, congratulations! Yeah, we were heading out a little early, before Granger's head exploded."

Colby wasn't so far behind them that he hadn't heard that comment. "We were going to lunch?" he asked innocently. "Hurry up, guys...I can smell those cookies from here."

David grinned. "Seriously, Charlie; thanks for lunch. Perfect timing - and congratulations on losing the cast, man."

Charlie turned his head slightly to thank David; unfortunately, he did this just as two other agents exited the break room. Charlie was looking toward David; the peripheral vision in Charlie's right eye was not good enough to register movement near the break room door. Before he could speak, he and one of the other agents had walked right into each other. Charlie's eyes widened in shock and his cup of coffee tipped toward his chest. He jerked back when the hot liquid began to spill, and the bulk of Colby Granger pushed him forward again. He yelped, dropped the cup, and immediately tripped over it. Almost faster than anyone could comprehend what was happening, Charlie fell onto his outstretched arms, crying out in pain once more.

**...**

Aaron Shulman had a passing familiarity with Agent Don Eppes.

The physician was not an observant member of the Jewish faith, himself; a situation which caused no small amount of heartache for his father, Rabbi Shulman. Aaron was not adamantly opposed to the faith, however. He and his parents managed to stay very close; sometimes, he even visited his father at the synagogue. It was there that he had briefly crossed paths with Agent Eppes. Aaron no doubt would have immediately forgotten the meeting, if his father had not asked him, a little later, if he would accept the agent's brother as his patient. The orthopedic specialist currently had a full case load - he was not even accepting referrals from other physicians - but his father rarely asked him for a favor. When he did, Aaron remembered the tired and slightly haunted expression on Don's face...obviously; the man could use a break. Dr. Shulman was busy, perhaps even somewhat faithless - but he was not without a heart. He had readily agreed to become Charlie's doctor.

It was a good thing, too. Dr. Aaron Shulman was busy because he was damned good at his job. A lesser physician might have taken Charlie's arm out of its cast on schedule, which was too soon. The fracture was slow to heal. By the time he was making that decision, Aaron had all of Charlie's medical records - and he wasn't surprised. The body could only do so much at one time. Between pneumonia, the eye injuries and the fractured arm, the arm had taken last priority, as far as his body was concerned. Healing white blood cells were on the job elsewhere for several weeks. The extra month in a cast may have been annoying to Charlie, but it had done the trick. A properly knit bone should be stronger than it was before being fractured; in Dr. Shulman's considerably respected opinion, such a state had been realized.

Still, when Charlie appeared in his office within two hours of having his cast removed, his arm slightly swollen and a clearly worried brother glued to his side, Aaron performed a cursory exam before he sent Charlie back to his radiology department. He knew Charlie well enough to see that he was growing frustrated and feeling smothered, so he suggested that Don wait in the exam room; there wasn't a lot of room in radiology, he said - even though, in truth, he had spent nearly three hundred thousand on a remodel the year before. Don appeared distraught, but Charlie flashed the physician a tiny smile of relief, so Aaron Shulman went with his instincts. He usually did, and doing so had served him well so far.

He opened the exam room door for Charlie, then paused before he followed him into the corridor, smiling reassuringly at Don. "Relax," he counseled gently. "I know your brother has been through a great deal this year. That can be as difficult for the family members as it is for the patient. I'm fairly certain the x-rays will confirm my belief that his arm has not sustained additional damage."

Don didn't look convinced. "It obviously hurts, and there's swelling," he retorted, almost accusingly.

Dr. Shulman's tone remained comforting. "Charlie's arm has been in a cast for a long time; the muscles are weak. He'll need some serious physical therapy to remedy that situation. I've already referred him to a therapist. With some ibuprofen to treat the inflammation and pain, I'm sure he'll be fine in a few days. He's very lucky he wasn't seriously burned by the coffee."

Don nodded, his frown deepening. "I guess it had cooled enough," he mumbled. "But you said he had a couple of second-degree burns. That's bad enough."

Aaron closed the door and turned to fully face Don, the expression on his face empathetic. "Only one small patch," he reminded the agent. He thought for a moment, then continued, his voice soft. "These accidents will happen, as Charlie adjusts to his new level of sight. Of course we don't want him seriously hurt again - for example, he's not driving, and he needs to be especially cognizant in situations like crossing a street, or descending a staircase. What we have to remember, is that we don't want him to become paralyzed by fear, either, and become a recluse. I think it was a very good sign, his taking a taxi to the deli and then to your office, bringing everyone lunch. He's really doing quite well, considering that he is legally blind in his right eye."

The doctor stopped speaking abruptly. Don Eppes had paled so dramatically, Shulman was afraid the agent might pass out. Aaron stepped away from the door and placed a steadying hand on Don's upper arm. "Agent? Are you all right? Perhaps you should sit..."

He tried to lead Don toward the only chair in the small exam room, but Don pulled away from him. He backed into a wall and looked at the doctor as if he had just told him that Charlie was dead. "_He's what?_" he whispered.

Shulman winced; he had made a serious and regrettable error, assuming that Charlie had told his brother about his right eye. "I'm...I'm not an ophthalmologist," he stammered, flustered. "It was in his records. It's only been a few months; his vision could still improve...please forgive me, I thought you were aware of your brother's condition..."

"So did I," choked Don, moving forward to fumble with the door knob.

"Please, Agent Eppes," began the doctor, but Don interrupted, his back to the physician.

"I've gotta get out of here," he said, jerking the door open. "Tell Charlie I'll wait for him in the car."

**...**

**End, Chapter 1**


	2. Chapter 2: Distorted Views

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 2: Distorted Views**

**…**

Charlie sat on the exam table, his legs dangling, gingerly flexed his hand, winced, and then sighed. As the door to the room opened, his head came up quickly, and his eyes searched Dr. Aaron Shulman's face.

Shulman smiled. "Good news," he said. "You did not re-fracture the arm. You did, however, sprain it, which is what is causing the swelling. You'll need to rest it, and we'll need to let the arm heal for a few days before you begin therapy, but I'm not even going to put your arm in a sling." His eyebrows rose. "I imagine you're in some pain."

"Some," Charlie admitted. The fact was, his arm was throbbing, but when it came to pain, his arm was the least of his worries. He had recurring, nearly blinding headaches since his eye injuries, and occasional episodes of eye pain, which came on suddenly, and felt like a knife was being inserted into his right eye. He'd been relying on his pain medication more than he cared to admit, and the last refill of his prescription was nearly gone. "My ophthalmologist had me on tramadol for eye pain and headaches, and it's nearly gone – maybe you could write another prescription?"

Shulman pursed his lips. "That's pretty strong stuff. Do you think you still need that? How about Darvocet, or Percocet?"

Charlie made a face. "No thanks, I can't take anything related to the codeine family, it make me really nauseated. I'll just make do with over-the-counter stuff until I see him, that's fine."

Shulman shook his head. "Nonsense - I understand the need for tramadol, now – you don't need to be vomiting, with your eye injuries. That's fine. Your ophthalmologist was okay with a refill?"

"Yeah," Charlie said, "he said he was going to write another prescription with refills when I went in next week." Inside, he cringed slightly – that was actually a stretch of the truth. He was nearly out of his medication, and his ophthalmologist had indicated he'd write him another single prescription, but he'd said nothing about refills.

Shulman nodded. "I can do that – no sense in having to fill two separate prescriptions, one from me for one round, and another from him for refills. I'll just make out one with refills." He paused, and looked as though he was going to say something, but all he said was, "Your brother is waiting for you out in the car. Get some ice on that arm when you get home, and be sure to rest it. Your therapist will give you further instructions when you go in next week."

A few moments later, Charlie was trudging down the hallway toward the parking garage. He stopped at the junction of a side hallway, turning his head fully toward the right to be sure no one was approaching, and took the opportunity to squint at his prescription. Tramadol, with four refills. He felt a bit of a weight lift from his chest, which surprised him; he hadn't realized how much he'd been dreading the thought of having to face those headaches without a prescription. He folded it carefully, wincing a little as the muscles in his injured arm flexed, and tucked the prescription away in his pocket. Taking another careful look down the hallway, he headed for the door to the garage.

The garage was yet another source of apprehension; it was dim and he moved slowly, trying to stick as close as he could to the parked cars. Now that he was out here, he began to wonder why Don would have left the waiting area without him. Maybe something had come up at work, he reasoned, and Don needed to come out and talk in privacy on his cell phone. Damn, he thought, maybe he was holding him up from something important. He stepped up his pace a little, searching for Don's SUV. There – that was it - he remembered Don parking near a concrete pillar.

He pulled open the passenger side door and slid carefully inside, holding his injured arm against him. In spite of the dimness and his compromised vision, he was close enough to Don to see him reasonably well, to pick out the quick glance, and tight set of his jaw. Charlie's heart dropped, immediately. This had to be a huge inconvenience for Don, carting him here to the hospital, waiting for him. "I'm sorry," he said.

Don turned to face him now, and was looking at him as if he were expecting him to say more. Charlie stared back for a second, and added, awkwardly, "For taking so long." He waved his good hand, "For this – for dragging you out of the office."

Don's expectant look faded and was replaced by something else, something Charlie couldn't quite define, but it wasn't good. Disapproval, perhaps; disappointment? Irritation? He stared back, trying to place it, waiting for an explanation, but Don turned forward and turned the key in the ignition, and just said, "Charlie, it wasn't a problem – you were hurt. I take it everything was okay?"

Another sidelong glance – there it was again, that expectant look. Charlie frowned, puzzled, and said, "Yeah, the doctor said it was just a sprain. I need to rest it and ice it for a few days, and I'll start therapy next week."

Whatever he'd said, it didn't seem to be what Don was looking for; his brother's jaw set even more tightly as he threw the SUV into reverse. "Good, Charlie, that's good," was all he said, but it came out sounding a little sarcastic.

'Oh, boy,' thought Charlie, as he settled back into his seat, and pulled on the seatbelt with his good hand, 'I've ticked him off. I should have caught a cab here, or something.' He shot another tentative look at Don, feeling suddenly like a burden, inept… handicapped. He turned his head forward, and the movement, and perhaps the stress, triggered another lightening bolt of pain through his right eye. He was due for another tramadol, he thought, and fighting down a grunt of pain, he closed his eyes tightly and leaned his head back on the headrest. He'd intended to ask Don to stop at a pharmacy, but he still had a few pain pills at home – he'd make do with those, and ask his father to make the trip. There was no way he was asking his brother for anything else. He'd been enough of an inconvenience today, and it was apparent that his brother thought so, as well. He rode in silence the rest of the way home, fighting pain, and a sense of defeat.

**…..**

Don sat in his SUV and watched Charlie slowly make his way up the walk to the Craftsman. Normally, he would have walked him in and made sure he got situated okay, but the sense of hurt and betrayal he felt generated a feeling of stubbornness that kept him firmly in his seat. He'd thought that their time on the run together had somehow brought them closer, but he couldn't have been more wrong. The fact that Charlie wouldn't confide in him about something so significant meant they were obviously far from being on the same page. A part of Don could understand that Charlie might feel ashamed by his handicap, but surely, they were close enough now that mere embarrassment wouldn't stand in the way of a meaningful conversation. Obviously, he'd been wrong – dead wrong about that.

As dead wrong as he'd been blind, himself. Now that he knew the truth, he wondered how he hadn't noticed before – the way Charlie would turn his head all the way to the right when he needed to look that direction, the way he'd walk with his right arm just slightly extended, to make sure he'd didn't bump into furniture on his right side – hell, the way he did bump into things or people occasionally, like the agent today. Just a couple of days ago, he'd watched Charlie reach for his fork at the dinner table, and miss – a sure sign of lack of depth perception. At the time, Don had attributed that to the fact that Charlie was talking, and wasn't paying attention to what he was doing, or that maybe the gas bubbles in his eyes had gotten in the way.

He knew that people adjusted to life with sight in only one eye. There were ways to compensate, surely, for the loss of peripheral vision on the blind side, for the loss of depth perception. That thought was no consolation; it did not ease the guilt. His brother was blind in one eye, it was his fault, and down deep, Don feared that was the real reason for Charlie's refusal to talk about it. His brother obviously blamed him for his condition. There could be no other explanation.

He waited until Charlie reached the door, and threw the SUV into reverse, and gunned it down the driveway, lurching out onto the street with a slight screech of tires. He jerked the gearshift into drive and floored it, as if he could somehow drive fast enough to leave the sense of guilt behind him.

**…..**

Charlie winced as he heard the impatient gun of Don's engine, the roar as it accelerated, the screech of tires. Yes, he'd definitely put a crimp in his brother's afternoon plans. He'd had the best intentions, too. He'd been feeling like less of a person, lately – the lack of sight robbed one of that most important freedom – mobility. He was dependent on others, at least until his left eye was improved enough, to get anywhere. The ability to bring Don and his team lunch, to take a taxi and actually go do something on his own – something for someone else, for a change – had been liberating. Even though it was a small task, it was exhilarating to know he could get about independently. Well, he'd surely been wrong about that. He couldn't even get a job as a delivery boy with his compromised vision – couldn't even deliver a damn sandwich without ending up in the hospital.

He shuffled through the living room, grunting in aggravation as his right thigh clipped the corner of the end table next to the sofa, and headed straight for the bathroom medicine cabinet and downed a tramadol. Then he trudged back into the living room and lay down on the sofa, sighing, as the familiar wave of relief swept through him. It made the pain recede, dulled the edges of his gloom and frustration just enough. A few moments later, he was asleep, with his injured arm laid carefully across his chest.

**….**

Audrey Paris, formerly Montague, watched the orderlies carefully as they maneuvered her brother's gurney into the house.

It had only been a few weeks since everything had fallen apart, but already, she was starting a new life, beginning to reinvent herself. She had filed for divorce from Jim Montague, and changed her surname back to her maiden name. She had significant money in her own name, which was a good thing, because her husband's assets had been frozen. She had an attorney working on trying to determine how much was rightfully hers so some of it could be freed up, but it was a long process. In the end, she would have nothing like the riches she'd expected.

To save money, she had moved her stepbrother out of his expensive care facility in San Francisco,and brought him to her home – a rambling Victorian oddity of a house on its own private drive, several miles out of L.A., in the hills – a place as far away from other people as she could manage. For additional privacy, she'd put the house in her lawyer's name. Mark was actually fairly low maintenance; although his eyes were open and sometimes seemed to track people, he was in a vegetative state, mentally. He needed bags changed – IV bags and other unmentionables – daily; Audrey had hired a private nurse for that task, who would come in daily.

She steered the orderlies to a large back room; it was an interior room and was windowless, with paneled walls, and had originally been a library. She had installed a large television in it for him – although Mark opened and closed his eyes, and sometimes seemed to focus, the doctors were doubtful that he had any normal brain function. EEGs after his accident did not indicate normal cognitive response. Still, they'd set up a television in his room at the care facility, and she'd done the same. She watched as they steered the gurney to a spot on one side of the room, opposite the television, and turned it on. Mark stared at it, closed his eyes, opened them again. "Okay, Mark, this is home," she said brightly.

One of the orderlies gave her a condescending look, and she sent him a brittle smile. The look made her seethe inside – she was always on the edge these days, feeling as though she were about to lose control, and fly into a rage. She was taking care of that, too, however, just like she was taking care of everything else in her life. As soon as the orderlies had set up her brother's IVs and had gone, she went straight for her stash.

When she'd first married Jim, they'd hung with a group of partiers. On the surface they were respectable – country club society – but after hours at private parties, drugs were plentiful. It was actually more common that they were used by the women; alcohol contained too many calories, and made it hard to fit into their size two designer clothes. Audrey's preferred high was combination of crystal meth and Ecstasy, and she loved how it made her feel – sharp, powerful, as if she could do anything. She thought she was handling it fine, but Jim – damn his stuffy ass – didn't, and after a while, he made her stop.

Well, Jim wasn't around to tell her what to do anymore – and neither was Everett Tuttle, the bastard. He'd dropped her like a hot potato after the Illusion, Corp. scheme fell apart. She hated them both, hated the law enforcement that had robbed her of her millions, hated her pathetic lump of a brother, hated everyone, hated life.

She pulled out her stash and popped a dose of meth, and decided to chase it down with a drink. The fact was, she didn't have to worry about calories these days – she had dropped ten pounds in the aftermath of the police charges and legal battles associated with her role in the Illusion, Corp. plot. She didn't care anyway – she'd quit her job before they could ask her to resign, and she intended to stay home as much as possible and lick her wounds. That was why she'd chosen the house, tucked away in the middle of nowhere on its private drive, out of sight of any prying neighbors. As far as anyone in L.A. knew, she had moved to another part of the country. She moved to the window and stared at the road that wound away from the entrance, and felt the surge as the meth hit her system. Damn them all.

She let her mind wander to where it always went, these days – what she would do if she had the chance - to Jim, to Everett, to the cops that had ruined their plan. Especially Don Eppes, and his annoying little freak of a brother. God, what she would give to have a shot any one of them. She took a swallow of her imported vodka, and let her imagination run. By the time she was on her second drink, she was smiling.

**…**

End, Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3: Scars

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 3: Scars**

**…**

Alan looked up from the pot of oatmeal and smiled at Amita as she entered the kitchen. "Good morning, dear," he greeted, looking back at the stove. "I woke up early today, and I was in the mood for oatmeal. I made enough for all of us; help yourself."

Amita moved toward the panty, in search of brown sugar. "Thank you." Her quiet murmur was followed by a sigh. "Charlie's...not feeling well this morning, so he won't be joining us. He's having one of his TAs cover his first class."

Alan, now at the refrigerator fetching milk, paused with the door open and frowned. "What's the matter? I thought the doctor said his arm was all right."

Amita set the canister of sugar on the table, picked up one of the ceramic bowls Alan had already placed there, and turned toward the stove. She started spooning oatmeal into the bowl. "He says it's still painful," she answered. "He also has a headache."

She offered the bowl to Alan when he appeared beside her with the other bowl. "That's a shame," he noted, shaking his head and exchanging dishes with his future daughter. "Are his eyes still bothering him?" He smiled lopsidedly and arched an eyebrow. "I'd say _'I hope not'_ - but that may be preferable to one of his migraines."

The two carried their breakfasts to the table. Alan quickly set his bowl down and moved to pull out Amita's chair for her. She blushed prettily and smiled shyly. "You've got to stop treating me like a...visitor," she reprimanded lightly as she sat. "But thank you."

Alan winked and stepped behind Amita's chair so that he could push it closer to the table. "I'm not treating you like a visitor," he said. "I'm treating you like I have always treated any woman I love."

Amita felt tears pressing at the backs of her eyes and swallowed. She was able to revert to the original subject by the time Alan sat down, facing her across the kitchen table. "I don't think it's a migraine," she said. "At least, he hasn't had the usual symptoms, like an aura..." She spooned some brown sugar onto her oatmeal, and her voice turned pensive. "I don't think it's his eyes, either... If I didn't know better, I'd say he was hung over."

Alan's spoon paused halfway to his mouth. The expression on his face was a mixture of amusement and surprise. "We had some wine with dinner last night, but I hardly think he had enough to be hung over! Less than one glass, if memory serves."

Amita blushed again and looked at him sheepishly. "That's what I mean," she answered. "Unless he woke up in the middle of the night, got out of bed without waking me, came downstairs and finished off the bottle - there's no reason to believe he's got a hangover."

Alan swallowed his oatmeal and patted his lips with a napkin. "Maybe it's just a normal headache," he suggested. "You know - like the rest of us get."

Amita laughed briefly. "I'm sure you're right," she answered. "It must not be too bad; he plans to be on campus in time for his 11:15 class."

Alan glanced at the clock hanging high over the sink. "Perfect timing," he announced. "I'm volunteering at the soup kitchen today; I can give him a ride on my way."

"Oh, good," Amita said, relief evident in her voice. "He said he'd take a bus, or a taxi - he hates being so dependent on us - but I'll feel much better if I know he's with you." Her mouth twisted wryly. "Yesterday's solo excursion didn't turn out all that well; and he can hardly feel like a burden if you're going out anyway."

Alan dipped his spoon back into the oatmeal. "Exactly," he agreed. Then he looked at Amita and winked again. "Maybe you could get up early tomorrow. I'll stop at the market for eggs if you'll make some of that killer French toast."

She laughed. "Isn't it a coincidence that I don't have to be on campus until 10 on Thursdays?"

Alan smiled. "It can't be news to you that Charlie inherited his genius."

**...**

Don stood in his tiny kitchenette, travel mug in hand, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. He had made the coffee strong, this morning; he hadn't slept well. He was tired, and his mood was not great - but hopefully, the hours twixt dusk and dawn had not been wasted. Lying in bed, staring at a ceiling he could not see in the dark room, he had done some thinking.

Robin had asked him to come over for dinner last night. "Dinner" almost always led to a sleep-over; hours of communicating that Don had wanted to avoid. The two of them were nearing forty, after all, and could only participate in enthusiastic sex for so long before they had to...talk. Sharing had never been tops on Don's list of things to do - but he was trying. He wanted a relationship like the one Charlie and Amita had. Although it had taken them a while to work their way into it, there was now an undeniable physical attraction between them. Don was as certain as he cared to be that his brother and Amita had healthy sexual appetites. However, there were also many times when Don would enter a room to find the two of them talking - and not always about something mathematical (although that topic was a heavy favorite). At any rate, Don was still in the sour mood brought on by discovering Charlie's secret, and he had made some lame excuse and turned Robin down.

The confused hurt in her voice stayed with him for hours. He held onto his anger a long time. Don told himself that Charlie's duplicity was jeopardizing his own relationship with Robin, and he became even angrier. He tossed. He turned. He seethed. He had thought he and Charlie had bridged the troubled waters of their relationship; being on the run with his brother over the summer, Don had let himself believe that they were close. Now, he found out that the little freak was lying to him, and it pissed him off.

It was three in the morning before he admitted that Charlie's betrayal did more than that: it hurt him, more deeply than he thought was possible. The realization made him long for...comfort; peace of a specific nature. His father had always been a comfort, but Don was long past the point of dragging the old man into the middle of something between himself and his brother. Alan was still his Number One Choice for comfort of a generic sort, but it would not be fair to anyone – least of all Alan – to put him in a position that required choosing sides between sons. No; and although it was almost five in the morning before Don admitted it, what he craved was a good talk with Rabbi Shulman.

Since he had been stabbed on the job, Don's visits to the synagogue had become less frequent. It was true that he had begun to wonder if his newfound interest in things Jewish was some sort of midlife crisis; Robin had been openly disdainful, at first. Eventually she had tried to support his interest, but it was painfully obvious how hard she had to try, sometimes, _not_ to say something, _not_ to lodge a protest about his wasting away the hours of the all-too infrequent Saturdays that they could spend together. In all honesty, he had probably let her opinion influence him. In addition, there had not exactly been time, when he and Charlie were on the run last summer, to stop by a local synagogue for a chat with a Rabbi du Jour. Now, though, he understood that he truly missed his discussions with Rabbi Shulman. The tiny little man – so small of stature that he made Charlie seem gigantic – was full of wisdom and compassion. Plus, Don had enjoyed the educational aspects of learning about the Jewish heritage. It wasn't as if he could get that anywhere else; Charlie wasn't interested, and Alan... Well, Don wasn't sure what was going on with his father and Judaism. The old man seemed more than simply not interested; he seemed a little resentful, as if there was an old hurt, something that left a shiny scar that reminded him, every time he took his shirt off, that someone – or rather, in Alan's case, some _thing_ – had tried to kill him.

Don absently fingered his own scar, from the near-fatal stabbing; he certainly knew what _that_ was like.

**...**

Sam Jarrett shoveled another forkful of pie into his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the taste of fresh strawberries off-season – and driving his sister crazy. He wasn't sure which part he enjoyed most. Finally he swallowed, then, maddeningly, picked up his mug of coffee, drinking at least half of it down before he replaced the mug on the table and picked up the napkin. He heard Doris snort in exasperation as he wiped his lips, and smirked into the napkin. Returning the napkin to the table, he smiled at Doris and patted his stomach. "Mighty good pie, Sis. Glad you thought to freeze up some berries this summer. 'Magine it'll taste even better 'round about December."

Doris glared at him across the table, not fooled for a minute. "Samuel V. Jarrett," she scolded – even in anger, she was leery about using his full middle name, which could set the man off like nothing else (and he _was_ carrying a gun, after all) – "don't you sit there pullin' my leg!" Her chin rose defiantly. "Mama would be ashamed of you."

Sam laughed, and winked at his older sister. "Don't get yer panties in a twist, Dorrie, I heard you. I heard you."

Doris inched closer to blowing a gasket when he stopped talking. She leaned forward a little, wondering if she dare risk shoving the rest of the pie in his smug face. She opted not to, and screeched a little instead. "Well? What do you think?"

Sam couldn't resist a parting shot. "I told you; the pie is good!"

Doris rose to her feet, affronted. "Get out of my kitchen."

Sam laughed again, longer and louder this time, finally managing to stop when Dorrie's face went from red to purple. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Settle down, woman, I'm just havin' some fun with you. Harry told me last week."

She rolled her eyes and dropped back into her chair. "You..._men_," she seethed, unable to think of a more apt insult.

The smile was still on Sam's face. "Ayup," he agreed laconically. Then he finally took pity on his sister, remembering that she was on blood pressure medication. He leaned across the table and awkwardly patted the back of her hand. "Poor fella just wanted some reassurin'. He was sorta afraid you might say 'No'."

Doris blushed like a schoolgirl and smiled shyly, shaking her head. "Can't believe he went to you for it," she remarked. "We both thought you might kill him when he took up with that Sally and dumped me in the first place."

Sam's face darkened, losing its smile. "Thought about it more'n once," he admitted.

Doris babbled on, intent on returning him to his good mood. "It's nice that you two are friends again," she said. "It was kind of like he divorced us both, wasn't it?" Sam shrugged, and went for his coffee again. Doris cleared her throat, a little nervous. "So that's why we want you to come with us on our honeymoon."

She finally succeeded in surprising her brother, who blew coffee out his nose and started coughing violently. Doris was just standing to go pound him on the back when he managed to croak a response. "Have you two _both_ lost your ever-lovin' minds, this time?"

She dimpled, and settled back in her chair. "Now, Sam. Just think about it. It ain't like we're a couple of doe-eyed teenagers anymore." She tried to look pathetic, and small. "Fact is, we're a couple of doddering old folks; we need someone to look out for us in the Big City."

Sam, still coughing occasionally, smirked at her. "Goin' all the way to Boise, then?"

Doris let him have that one; after all, she'd nearly inadvertently killed him with coffee. "Very funny. It's the off-season for us, and you're due some vacation. We want to take, maybe, three or four weeks...drive to Los Angeles. There's lots to do out there, and we could see Dave...I mean, Don, and Chad-Charlie!"

Sam's mouth fell open. He was stunned; mostly because he actually liked the idea. "What...what makes you think you'll be welcome?" he finally asked.

Doris smiled smugly. "I've talked to both boys several times since they got to go home," she announced, "and they always say I should come out there and meet their father. Alan. I've talked to him, too – he gave me a recipe for brisket I'm gonna try on Sunday. You comin?"

Sam tried to figure out if she was talking about Sunday dinner or Los Angeles. He finally decided it didn't really matter, since both questions had the same answer. "Of course."

**...**

End, Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4: Fog

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 4: Fog**

**…**

Charlie stood with his hands on the bathroom sink and his head down, trying to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He raised his head and stared at the reflection in the mirror. His eyes looked the same; it wouldn't be apparent to an observer that he'd been nearly blinded several weeks ago. As he did every morning, he covered his left eye with his hand, and stared at where his reflection should have been with his right eye. Nothing but grayness, a little lighter at the top where the light shone over the bathroom mirror, but otherwise, nothing. Fog. Mist. Opaqueness. Nothing.

He tried to calm the nasty feeling that settled in his gut every time he did this; his ophthalmologist had told him it could take weeks, months, before his vision returned. He kept focusing on that statement, refusing to give up hope, even though at his last appointment, his doctor had begun to hint that perhaps there would not be the recovery that they'd hoped for in his right eye. He had begun to talk about training Charlie could take, coping mechanisms that he could learn, geared toward people with sight in only one eye. He was supposed to start that therapy after the next visit; the ophthalmologist had decided his left eye was healed enough that he could be fitted with a contact lens. More than likely, the prescription would change several times over the next few months as his eye healed, but he would be back to being able to see, at least out of one eye. He suddenly winced, then gasped, as a white-hot pain shot through his right eye.

The tramadol he'd taken the afternoon before had started to wear off by bedtime and his eye pain and a nasty headache had started to re-emerge, as had the throbbing in his injured arm. Ordinarily, he might have tried to tough it out, and he still wasn't quite sure why he'd taken yet another dose at bedtime. If he'd actually taken the time to analyze his motives, he would have realized that the physical pain was only a piece of it; there was also some mental discomfort. He was still smarting from his encounter with Don, yesterday, and his brother's obvious sour mood. Charlie couldn't put a name on it, but he was certain that whether it was impatience or irritation, or some other emotion, it had to do with him. That, and his physical pain, had put him in a nasty mood himself, and just before bed, he had scowled at himself in the mirror, muttered, "To hell with it," and downed another pill.

That had sent him off into oblivion before Amita had even come to bed, and he had awakened groggy, grumpy, and worse yet, with a pounding headache. That made him wish for another dose, but he was already too late to make his first class, and he knew he had to get his act together. Still brooding over Don's reaction and nursing his aching head, he stumped downstairs. Alan fussed over him and tried to feed him, but food turned his stomach and he opted for coffee. The caffeine seemed to help, and by the time he had gotten his things together and was in the car, he felt at least halfway human. He sent a sideways glance at Alan. "Hey Dad, can I ask you a favor?"

His father beamed at the request; Charlie had been stubbornly refusing to accept help for anything, and he knew it was driving his father crazy. Alan liked to fuss. "Of course, Charlie. What?"

Charlie waved a piece of paper at him. "I got a refill for pain pills from Dr. Shulman yesterday. Do you mind stopping at the drugstore on the way so I can drop it off?"

Alan accepted the piece of paper, and tucked it in the cup holder between them. "I can do better than that," he said. "I'll take it later and wait while they fill it – then you'll have them when you come home." He frowned a little. "Is your arm hurting that much?"

Charlie flushed a little. He felt guilty about the prescription, although why, he didn't know, he thought to himself, a bit stubbornly. He was experiencing some significant pain, after all. "It's more my head, and I'm still getting some pain in my right eye," he admitted. "The arm doesn't help."

Concern washed over Alan's face. "Your eye still hurts that much?"

"Not all the time," said Charlie. "I get shooting pain through it once in a while – the doctor said that was normal. I have an appointment with him next week, but he's told me it's nothing to worry about." He looked away, evasively, and muttered, "Of course, if it's too much trouble…"

"No, of course not, Charlie, I told you, it's no trouble at all." The conversation flagged. Alan's voice was soothing, but it made Charlie feel even more uncomfortable. He wasn't being entirely honest with either himself, or his father. Yes, he had some pain, but he had the disturbing sensation that he was more reliant on those pain pills than he should be. They rode in silence the rest of the way to campus.

**…**

Alan Eppes watched his younger son walk across campus, with a slight frown on his face. Charlie seemed a little off, these days, and it wasn't like him to miss class. Of course, he had an excuse for exhibiting some stress, after what he'd gone through, but he'd seemed in fairly good spirits, until recently. But then, so had Don; and Don was in a decidedly bad mood last evening when Alan had talked to him on the phone. Of course, the incident with Charlie's arm could have set them both off, he reasoned. He knew his older son felt guilty over what had happened to Charlie, and the arm could have made those feelings resurface. The accident could have sharpened some painful memories for Charlie, as well. He supposed there was a good reason for them to be out of sorts. It was just – something wasn't quite right, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

He sighed, and put the car into reverse. "It's understandable," he thought to himself. "It would be odd if there wasn't just a bit of post-traumatic stress, here. It will resolve itself, I'm sure."

**…..**

Mark Vincent stared blankly at the television screen, and listened to Audrey rant. His stepsister was in rare form today, swilling something clear – vodka or gin – and it wasn't even noon, yet. He suspected she was high, too. Her state of inebriation, combined with her self-centered temperament, had induced one of her rage-at-the-world speeches and she stalked about the room, gesturing with her glass sharply enough that some of the alcohol splashed over the side. "Damn!" She stopped and swore, and licked some of the drips from her wrist. "That's expensive vodka."

Mark's blank expression wasn't due to her compromised sobriety, however. He wasn't capable of much facial movement, although if he wanted, he could send signals with his eyes. He never did when Audrey was around, however; he didn't trust her. Somehow, he felt that if she didn't know he was actually cognizant of what was going on around him, he'd have the upper hand mentally, even if he didn't have it physically. His injuries had left him unable to move, unable to speak, unable even to breathe unassisted; the only way he could draw breath was with the assistance of the electrodes and the pacemaker that had been surgically wired to his diaphragm. His nurse at the home in Texas had known he could hear her – he used to try talk to her with his eyes, using blinks to communicate. She'd once tried to tell Audrey that he could hear and understand, even if he couldn't speak, but thankfully, Audrey hadn't believed her. Whenever Audrey was in the room, Mark played dumb and simply stared dully at whatever was in front of him – usually the television. Thank God for television; as inane as much of the programming was, it kept him from going insane.

He was shocked and terrified when they'd moved him from the home in San Francisco, where he'd been for so many years. Audrey had waltzed in one day and smiled at him – a brilliant smile negated by cold eyes – and told him that she missed him, and she was going to take him to live with her. She talked to him as if he was a child, and he knew she was only speaking to him because she was humoring his nurse and his attending physician, who both knew he had some sense of comprehension. There seemed to be a problem with his trust fund; some of it was tied up in some kind of court proceedings, and he had no doubt that Audrey was the cause. Now, she claimed she had to save money, and it was cheaper for him to live with her at home, and hire nurses and therapists to visit the house. Mark couldn't help but wonder why she suddenly cared so much – she had rarely visited him. If she were truly having money problems, her life would be much easier if he were gone – she stood to inherit the money in his trust, and he was now alone with her in this monstrosity of a house, at her mercy. The thought left a pit of fear in his gut, along with an intense feeling of sadness. He missed Trina, his nurse. Hell, he more than missed her; he had to admit, he was in love with her. Seeing her every day had made his life worthwhile, and the television barely managed to fill the hours in between.

Now he still had the television, but instead of Trina, he had Audrey, his drunk and half-deranged stepsister – a woman who would probably prefer him dead.

The doorbell rang once, and then made an odd metallic-sounding buzz. It was obviously not working correctly. Mark shot a fleeting glimpse sideways and mentally sighed with relief as he saw her leave the room, banging her shoulder on the doorframe on the way out, with a hiss of pain. His relief was short-lived; she reappeared a few moments later, along with two men. Mark's eyes went to the television again, but he listened intently.

Apparently, the two men were researchers, and wanted to enroll him an experimental trial. It was cutting-edge stuff; they used electrodes attached to the head to allow patients to move a cursor on a computer screen with their minds. Mark was an ideal candidate, they claimed; the doctor from the home in San Francisco had recommended him for the trial. They would hook him up to a computer, and he could use the cursor to create messages. Mark could hardly contain himself at the thought. He could send messages to Trina… email her, finally talk to her after all these years.

"That's ridiculous," snapped Audrey to the men. "He's a vegetable – all he does all day is stare at the television."

"This will cost nothing, ma'am," said one of the researchers. "Subjects like Mark are extremely rare – we are prepared to pay all of his medical expenses, even his normal daily nurse visits, therapy, what have you, for the duration of the trial, just to have this opportunity with him." He walked over to Mark and peered in his face. "Hello, Mark; I am assuming you've heard our conversation. Would you like to participate in the trial? Blink once for yes."

"He can't hear you," sneered Audrey.

Mark blinked.

The man straightened with a smile and a wink at Mark. "That's good enough for me."

"That was a coincidence," Audrey objected, but she was peering at Mark suspiciously, and he let his face go blank, let his eyes fix vacantly on the television screen. She snorted softly, and waved a hand. "Okay, sure, we're in," she said, in voice that said she was simply humoring them. Mark was certain that what really had interested her was the offer to pay for his medical expenses during the trial. "But I'm telling you, you're wasting your time."

The other researcher smiled, and glanced at Mark. "Oh, I think Mark will be the judge of that," he said.

**…..**

Half of a pill took the edge off, and still left him able to think, Charlie discovered at mid-day. His head had pounded all morning, outdoing even the pain in his arm, and by noon, he was nearly beside himself. He didn't like to take tramadol if he could help it at school; it made him too groggy. He was desperate enough at lunchtime, though, to try half of one. It didn't quite eliminate the pain, and he found himself staring longingly at the other half, but he put it back in the bottle. It was enough, however, to make it through the afternoon. He took the other half at the end of the day, before Amita showed up to pick him up. For some reason, he didn't like her to see him taking the pain pills.

The other half offered blissful relief for a couple of hours, but eventually the first half started to wear off. Charlie was home by now, and had just finished grading tests. His head was starting to ache again, and he was considering slipping up to the bathroom to take another half pill, when the doorbell rang. Amita was upstairs and his father was in the laundry room, so Charlie went to answer it. He half expected it was Larry Fleinhardt – his friend and colleague was leaving for CERN soon to consult on a project associated with the Large Hadron Collider, and he had said he might stop by. Instead, Charlie stared open-mouthed at the threesome on his doorstep.

"Chad! I mean, Charlie!" Doris Sackett beamed at him, and her brother, Sam Jarrett, and Harry Sackett grinned over her shoulder. "I hated to just show up like this, but we had your address and decided just to come on ahead and surprise you. We couldn't come all the way to Los Angeles and not stop to see you." She raised an eyebrow, and peered over his shoulder. "Your brother here?"

**…**

Doris Sackett was a content woman.

Charlie had invited them to stay for dinner, and she'd gotten to meet his father, Alan, and his pretty girlfriend, Amita. Best of all, though, someone had called Dave – damn it, Don – she was having a heck of a time getting used to their real names — and he had come over also, along with a couple of his fellow agents. The one agent's name really was David, and the other, Colby, was actually from Idaho, himself. She'd met him last summer, and was pleased to see him again. Both agents were good-looking men, too, and Doris enjoyed talking about her home state with Colby, but as far as she was concerned, none of them held a candle to Don. Now there was a fine man.

Not that she wasn't happily married – again – to Harry, but a woman would have to be dead not to notice Don Eppes. Charlie, too, for that matter; he was a lot more attractive without the ponytail. Face still looked a little pinched, though, she thought. As if he was in pain, or something.

She accepted another glass of wine from Alan Eppes, and then turned to ask the question that had consumed her since they'd left. "So, Dave," she began.

She stopped as Don Eppes and the agent named David Sinclair both turned and said simultaneously and politely, "Yes?"

The whole group stared at them in confusion for a moment, and then Don Eppes actually blushed, and said, "I was assuming you meant me."

Doris flushed a bit herself, and laughed self-consciously. "Yes, I did. I'm sorry, I'm just havin' a hard time gettin' used to your real names. I was going to ask you, what happened to you and – Charlie – when you left?"

She was still beaming, but her smile faltered a bit as she saw Don and Charlie exchange a glance, and then look away. The mood in the room seemed suddenly altered, more somber, and the young woman named Amita stood abruptly.

"I'm going to go make some tea," she said quietly.

Doris saw Charlie watch her go, then rub his forehead and wince a little. He suddenly looked very tired, and the faded smiles made Doris wish she could recall her question.

"It's a long story," said Don softly, as preamble, and as he began to talk, Doris had the feeling that somehow, that story was not over yet.

**…**

End, Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5: Seeing the Light

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 5: Seeing the Light **

**…**

Rabbi Shulman reached for the glass of tea on his desk, pausing to smile almost shyly at Agent Eppes. The Rabbi bowed his head in a slight dip towards his guest. "It is good to see you again, Don. Are you sure you will not join me in a glass of tea?"

Don smiled and shook his head. "No, thank you, Rabbi," he said, waiting for the older man to make his way across the room and join him in the more casual seating area where they usually sat during their talks. "I've already had too much caffeine today."

Shulman carefully set his glass on the small end table sitting between the two overstuffed chairs, and nodded sagely as he sank into the chair Don was not already occupying. "It is true that I serve a strong tea," he agreed. "My son, the doctor..." He grinned. "Ah. How I have longed to say that!" Don laughed, and the Rabbi continued. "My son tries to convince me regularly to decaffeinate." He waved a limp hand in the air. "Pshaw." He raised the glass to his lips, took a long drink, and sighed in satisfaction as he returned the glass to the table. He settled more deeply into his chair and regarded Don solemnly. "You have been busy. I have not seen you in some time."

It was a statement, not an accusation—but still; Don felt the heat of embarrassment rising in his face. "I'm sorry," he finally responded. "Things have been difficult."

The Rabbi chastised mildly. "All the more reason for you to come to synagogue, my son." The two sat silently for a moment before he continued. "Much of my reading is confined to Jewish publications – but not all of it; I saw an account of how you spent your summer vacation."

Don looked at him in surprise, then found himself laughing with delight. "Now that you mention it, Rabbi...in some ways, it was like a vacation. I haven't had such a good time with Charlie in...well, _ever_, probably."

The Rabbi lifted a bushy eyebrow. "Indeed?"

Don's attention seemed turned inward. "We didn't have much in common when we were kids. Besides the age difference, Charlie's...gift...was a pretty overwhelming thing to be around. The older we got, the more distant we became. After our mother passed away, and Charlie and I started working together, we were able to bridge the gap a little. Our Dad was happy about that..." He looked sheepishly at the Rabbi. "I mean, I was too. Still, we live in two different worlds." He grinned, a tad wickedly. "His is the world of academia, whereas mine is the real world." The Rabbi did not seem to find this as amusing as Don did, and the agent shrugged defensively. "I'm just saying. We didn't really hang out a lot outside of work – except for the occasional double date." He looked at his shoes morosely. "Even that just pointed out how different we were," he mumbled. "We never wanted to do the same things, go the same places; about all we both voted for was eating one of Dad's meals."

Eventually he decided he'd said enough about his relationship with Charlie, and tried to change the subject. "So...I met your son, the other day. Charlie...needed a ride," Don continued lamely. "Nice guy. Your son, I mean." Don wondered if it was possible to make the conversation any more awkward.

"Thank you," answered the Rabbi in a bemused voice. "I accept the compliment, even though I am fairly certain you do not mean to imply that your brother is not a _'nice guy'_."

Don felt himself blush again and mumbled something unintelligible. Rabbi Shulman paused for another sip of tea. "So," he said conversationally, as he returned the glass to its coaster on the side table, "tell me."

Don regarded the Rabbi with confusion. "Beg pardon?"

Rabbi Shulman smiled. "You speak of a terrible time in your life, a time when your very life was in constant danger, with fondness and regret. I do not think you miss the attention of your enemies...and so I conclude that you miss something – or someone – else."

Don opened his mouth to deny the truth, and found that he could not. "I do," he admitted miserably.

Rabbi Shulman nodded sagely. "You have both returned to your busy lives."

Don's face darkened. "It's not just that," he hissed venomously. "I thought this summer meant something. I thought we were finally close, the way brothers should be." He leaned forward in his chair. "_He's been lying to me!_ After everything we went through, he still can't be honest with me!" Don was suddenly in a rage, and he flung himself backwards in the chair so hard that the furniture scooted back a few inches. "Doesn't the Torah say we should be honest?" he demanded.

An expression of great sadness came over the Rabbi's face. He tented his hands in front of his face, and rocked his body for a few moments, his eyes closed. Then he stopped rocking, opened his eyes, and dropped his hands to his lap. "I wonder..." he began. "Are we to impose honesty upon another, or merely to offer it ourselves?"

Don's mouth gaped. "What?"

The Rabbi seemed to be thinking aloud. "Torah forbids saying anything negative about another person," he said. His eyes focused on Don. "It is a crime against God. Lashon hava."

Don shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and looked away from the Rabbi's penetrating gaze.

Shulman sighed. "I forget that you do not understand," he said, speaking more gently now. "_Lashon hava_ means evil tongue."

Don looked at him again. "Sorry," he responded shortly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

The Rabbi smiled sadly. "It is not my offense of which we speak, my son."

Don shrugged. "I don't mean to speak ill of Charlie, either. I just don't understand him."

The Rabbi nodded. "And again I ask, have you offered your own honesty? Does your brother know how you feel?"

Don shook his head. "I don't know...I almost hope he doesn't. If he knew how much his dishonesty bothered me, but chose to keep the truth from me anyway..." He shuddered. "In fact, I'm _sure_ that I hope he doesn't know how I feel."

The Rabbi stroked his beard. "Then. Should you not offer that which you seek?" Don didn't answer right away, and the Rabbi continued. "It may surprise you, Don, but truth is not the highest ideal in Judaism." He smiled at the expression of disbelief on Don's face. "Do not fret, for truth comes in a close second," the Rabbi said. "_Peace_ is the ultimate goal." This time _he_ leaned forward a bit in his chair. "Speak to your brother. Offer him the honesty you so value; but make sure your truth is not a weapon, used to club him over the head. Speak honestly, in love, and the truth will pave the way for peace."

**…**

Alan let a dollop of cream cheese melt into the dish of mashed potatoes and checked his watch. He wanted to make sure he didn't overcook the cauliflower; everything must be cooked perfectly for Larry's send-off dinner. Ordinarily, he preferred butter in his potatoes, but he was going out of his way to present as white a meal as possible. Larry's tastes had broadened during the last few years, it was true, but Alan still fondly remembered all the white meals Larry had taken in this house. It seemed appropriate that his last meal here - at least his last in several months - should reflect so many of the previous meals.

There would be white wine in the wine glasses. Pieces of all-white-meat turkey had been meticulously carved and placed on a serving plate. The side dishes of potatoes and cauliflower would be joined by a snowy white risotto (made with white rice, heavy cream and champagne), and a nice baked fettuccini casserole. The fact that the pasta had a slight yellow tint was well concealed with copious amounts of Alfredo sauce and parmesan cheese. For dessert, Alan had baked a fluffy white cake, and topped it with mounds of coconut-laden frosting. How Larry had managed to eat this way for years, and not gain an astronomical amount of weight, was a mystery to Alan. He expected to pack on ten pounds during this one meal, alone.

Amita had enthusiastically joined in the preparations. A vegetarian, she had spent most of that day - a Saturday - concocting a surprisingly delicious chili, using white beans, onions, garlic, vegetable stock, a soy-based frozen chicken substitute, and a touch of shredded sharp, white cheddar. She had tweaked the recipe on the fly, eliminating things like bright red tomatoes, and Alan was impressed with the results. Oh, he still liked his beef chili better - but this woman was his daughter, now, and he would encourage her to make the chili again, for them all to enjoy. His sons _would_ enjoy it, too; even if he had to slip them an In-n-Out burger on the sly.

He heard a vehicle pull into the drive and smiled, dumping cauliflower into a serving dish. That would be Don. Larry, the guest of honor, had arrived almost an hour ago. The last time Alan checked, Amita was watching the physicist lose a chess match against Charlie. The two professors were pretty evenly matched as chess players; watching them go at it could literally take days - a game could even go on for weeks. Now that Don was here, Alan certainly wasn't going to delay dinner for the game. Larry and Charlie could just continue the match via e-mail.

The kitchen door opened and Don stepped inside. "Hey, pop."

Alan's smile widened. "Donny; just in time! I'm glad you could make it. It's a shame Robin is out of town."

Don shrugged. "I talked to her this morning, and she sends Larry her best. She says the trial in Portland could go to jury next week, so maybe she won't be gone much longer. What can I do to help?"

Alan picked up the platter of turkey with one hand, the bowl of potatoes with the other. "I've got this. Go into the solarium and tell the others to wash up." He paused when he reached the swinging door, and looked back at Don. "They're in the middle of a chess game, and you know how those two are. Threaten to shoot the Queen, if you have to."

Don laughed, stopping to lift the bowl of cauliflower from the table. He followed Alan into the dining room, handed him the serving bowl, and continued on to the solarium. Larry sat on one side of the chess table, chewing on the fingers of one hand. Charlie sat on the other, staring intently at the board, seemingly oblivious to the ministrations of Amita, who lightly traced circles on his upper back with one hand, while she stared at the board with as much concentration as her two fellow professors. Charlie tilted his head, as if to see the board more clearly, and the sight activated a churning in Don's gut, and soured his mood. "Dad says it's time for dinner," he announced sullenly, half-turning to leave.

"In a minute," murmured Charlie - and Don felt his temper rising out of control.

He had decided to come to Larry's dinner tonight without mentioning his disappointment in Charlie. His talk with Rabbi Shulman had convinced him that he should talk to his brother - but this was not the time. The evening was intended to honor Larry, and wish him well. No one in the room was more surprised than Don was when a bitter response spilled off his tongue. "Finish the damn game some other time, Charlie; tonight's not all about _you_, remember?"

Three sets of eyes turned to regard him in varying degrees of surprise. Charlie frowned, then began to stand. "Is something wrong, Donny?"

Don turned his back on them and started to exit the solarium. "Just come to dinner. Dad's been working hard all day."

"Don." It was Larry's voice; Don forced himself to stop walking, and turned slowly to face the old family friend. Larry glanced at Charlie, then back to Don. "Of course, we'll stop the game and be right there. We certainly don't want to offend Alan."

Charlie turned his entire head awkwardly to regard Larry, and the action served to further antagonize Don. He snorted, and completely forgot Rabbi Shulman's sage advice regarding _how_ he offered honesty to his brother. "Maybe you should speak for yourself, Larry. I'm not so sure Charlie feels the same way - about any of us."

Amita's quiet intake of breath was almost drowned out by Charlie's plaintive question. "What? Did I do something to make you angry?"

Don crossed his arms over his chest, assuming a posture of self defense. He centered himself over straddled legs and all-but sneered at his brother. "I thought we were close. I thought you trusted me."

Charlie looked more confused than ever. "I...I do..."

Don interrupted him. "Then why haven't you told me the truth, huh? Why are you keeping your condition a secret from me?"

Charlie swallowed. Did Don suspect him of hitting the tramadol a little too liberally? "Con… condition?" he finally parroted weakly.

Don sighed. "Just forget it, Charlie. If you don't want me to know that you're blind in one eye, that's your business." He started to turn again. "Dad's waiting."

Amita's gasp of shock stopped him. He looked over his shoulder and saw that his brother had gone as white as the food, and was sinking into his chair. "That's not true," he said, lowering his head into his hands. "Who told you that? **It's not true!**" He looked up, defiant. Don, fully facing him again, could see tears glimmering in both of his eyes. "The, the doctor, the doctor say, says we don't know, yet! It WILL come back! **IT WILL!**"

Don regarded Charlie in shock. His brother seemed as stunned by Don's statement as Amita, who was quietly crying, and Larry, who was standing with his mouth open. Dear God in heaven, was it possible that Charlie had not told Don about his blindness because he himself did not know? At the very least, it was now painfully obvious that Charlie had not even come close to accepting his current level of vision as permanent. Forget shooting the Queen - Don felt like eating the gun himself.

He took a hesitant step toward Charlie. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry, Buddy... I must have misunderstood..."

Charlie clambered to his feet again, and took a step away from Don. "Misunderstood who?" he demanded. "Misunderstood what?" He whipped his head around to look pleadingly at Amita. "I swear, the doctor told me there could still be improvement; especially once the lenses he prescribed are ready for me to start wearing!"

Charlie was just a notch below full-blown panic, and Amita stayed her own tears, moving to take him in her arms. "It's all right, Charlie," she soothed. Larry moved to stand with them, adding his own quiet encouragements. Don couldn't have felt worse if he had been blind, himself. In fact, in a manner of speaking, he _had_ been.

He stood disconsolately, rooted to the floor several feet away. "Charlie, don't get upset - I'm sure it was me. The day I took you to Dr. Shulman...I was worried, I'm sure I misunderstood him..."

Charlie lifted a tear-stained face from Amita's shoulder. "Shulman? He's not even my ophthalmologist."

"Exactly," Don hurried to say. "I should have realized that he wouldn't even know the latest information about your eyes." He took another hesitant step toward his brother. "It's my fault. I jumped to a conclusion, and I wasn't fair to you. I'm really sorry, Charlie." Saying Dr. Shulman's name had reminded Don of his talk with the Rabbi, and he winced; he had indeed used his truth as a weapon, clubbing everyone in the room over the head. Now he felt worse than he had thought was possible. He hung his head in despair. "I am so sorry. Please, forgive me."

For a moment, it looked as if Charlie was ready to be persuaded. Then he hissed, ducked his head, and clapped one hand over his right eye. He staggered into Larry, who, along with Amita, guided him back into his chair. "What is it, Charles?"

"God," Charlie ground out. "It's like a knife in my eye!" He grasped blindly for Amita with his free hand. "Make it stop!"

Amita knelt next to his chair. "Do you have any pain pills left?" she asked. She turned her head and glared at Don. "He doesn't need this kind of stress!"

"Pack," Charlie managed to answer; it was apparent the single syllable was almost too much for him.

Don tried to do what he could to negate his earlier bad behavior. "You stay with Charlie," he said to Amita. "I saw his pack in the kitchen; I'll get the pills." Without waiting for an answer, Don raced from the room, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with Alan.

The older man jerked back, a look of alarm on his face. "What is it?" he asked, looking over Don's shoulder, toward the solarium. "Is something wrong?" Don didn't even stop to answer, but left his father confused - and frightened - in the hall.

**...**

End, Chapter 5

**...**

_**A/N: The authors intend no disrespect towards Judaism or Jewish ancestry. Efforts have been made to keep Don's conversations with Rabbi Shulman both believable and non-offensive.**_


	6. Chapter 6: Foot In Mouth Disease

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 6: Foot in Mouth Disease **

**…**

Don sat at his desk the next morning, and could still taste shoe leather. He'd put his foot in his mouth, big time, the evening before, and had effectively ruined Larry's dinner. Charlie's eye pain had sent him off for a tramadol, and he'd ended up on the sofa with Amita by his side, until he'd drifted off to sleep. Don hadn't felt like eating, but he forced himself to sit with Alan and Larry. 'Forced' was the word of the evening; the conversation was forced, and he had to force himself to eat, force himself to listen as Larry; unnerved by the argument, went into a technical ramble about the Large Hadron Collider that had Alan's eyes glazing over.

Now Don sat, brooding, trying to figure out how it had happened. Dr. Aaron Shulman had sounded so sure of himself when he'd said that Charlie was blind in one eye, and Don had simply assumed that Charlie had passed that information on to him. Had Shulman jumped to some kind of conclusion on his own, or had someone given him that information? Don stared at the piece of paper on his desk, and the phone number scrawled on it, toying with it, and finally straightened, picked up the phone, and dialed.

Shulman's receptionist put him straight through, and Don heard the doctor's voice resonate warmly through the receiver. "Don Eppes! What can I do for you?"

His carefree tone was irritating – didn't the man know the trouble he'd caused? Don scowled into the phone. "Well, for starters, you can tell me where you got the information on Charlie's supposed blindness. The subject – uh – came up, last night, and Charlie didn't know anything about it. He was pretty upset."

Either Don's directness or the statement itself seemed to flummox Dr. Shulman for a moment; he was completely silent. "I'm sorry," he finally said. "I think we should talk face-to-face. I have some time right now, if you do – perhaps we can meet for a cup of coffee? Or maybe later, if you're busy, although I'm a bit booked with appointments later in the day."

Don glanced at the digital clock on his computer screen. He had an hour and a half before a meeting on a smuggling case they were working in conjunction with the DEA and the Coast Guard. "Sure. How about the Java Jive on the corner of Rampart and West Fourth?"

Shulman looked appropriately chagrined as he walked in the door of the Java Jive, and Don's irritation eased, just a bit. Still, his expression was anything but welcoming, he was sure, and he tried to wipe the frown from his face as Shulman slid into the booth across from him. They ordered; black coffee for Don, white tea for Shulman, and Shulman sighed and rubbed the back of his head in a rueful gesture as the waitress set down their cups and departed. "I'm afraid I made quite a mess of things," he said, liberally dumping sugar in his cup and stirring his tea. "After we got off the phone, I called Charlie's ophthalmologist, Dr. Cooper, just to be sure that I had the latest reports." He sighed, looking back at his tea. "It was...difficult...to pin Dr. Cooper down. He's extremely good – one of the best, but that also makes him extremely busy. Anyway, some medicines can interact, or have effects on the eye, such as raising or lowering ocular pressure, so when Charlie injured his arm, I had contacted Cooper's office for the information, just to be sure. The notes in the report said that the prognosis for his right eye wasn't good, and that he was currently legally blind; he can sense light, but no more, in that eye."

The coffee suddenly seemed to percolate in Don's stomach, which rolled queasily. He put down his cup. "Charlie said that Dr. Cooper had told him that his eyes were still healing, and there could be improvement yet."

Shulman nodded. "The report did say that, but Dr. Cooper stated in his notes that while the left eye is improving steadily, the right hasn't seen much improvement. I assumed that Charlie knew that, and that he would have told his immediate family. Both bad assumptions, and to be truthful, I broke a cardinal rule of patient confidentiality." His kind face reddened slightly. "Technically, you could get me in all sorts of trouble - and I would deserve it. He waved a hand. "At any rate, I wanted you to know what I read in the report, and why I said what I did, but you have to realize that I may have only gotten part of the story from Dr. Cooper's notes, or perhaps those notes were out-of-date. The situation could very well have changed. Neither of you should take my word for it – you should speak directly to Dr. Cooper." He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "I am so very sorry – this is entirely my fault, and it's inexcusable behavior." He smiled wanly. "I know my father has taken you on as a pupil of sorts, and although he doesn't talk about your discussions, I could tell from his expression when he mentioned you that he likes you a great deal. I suppose I assumed some familiarity that didn't really exist, and was a little freer with our discussion than I should have been." He took a sip of tea. "Good tea, although it's not quite enough to counteract the taste of my foot."

Don's anger had been slowly dissipating during Aaron Shulman's apology, and he grimaced regretfully. "Yeah, well, I know how that is. I had a pretty bad case of foot-in-mouth disease myself yesterday." He regarded Shulman for a moment. "You meant well, and you had Charlie's best interests at heart. I didn't really call you to ask for an apology, or to threaten legal action; I was just trying to sort out what was really going on with Charlie's recovery. But if you need to hear it, you're forgiven, at least from my standpoint."

Shulman nodded, and smiled, and the way his dark eyes twinkled reminded Don of his father, the rabbi. "Thank you, I very much appreciate that, although I'm afraid I'll need to apologize to Charlie, as well."

Don's face eased into a slight smile. "Besides, if I didn't exhibit the spirit of forgiveness, I'm sure I'd hear about it from your father."

Shulman threw back his head and laughed, revealing even white teeth. "As would I, if I didn't apologize. He's got us both running scared."

"He's a pretty smart guy," said Don softly.

Shulman nodded, with a fond look in his eye. "Yes, he is." He stirred his coffee once more and took a sip. "I'll call Charlie when I get back to the office. Is he at home?"

"No, he went in to campus. He started teaching a class or two, but I think just smaller groups of more advanced students in small classrooms – I think he has a hard time with seeing distance-wise, so someone's picking up his lectures in the big lecture halls. I'm sure he has some gaps in his schedule."

Aaron was silent for a moment. "He seems to be pushing things pretty hard, considering his injuries."

Don sighed. "That's what I thought, myself, but he was adamant about going back. I think he wanted to prove to himself that he could." He pulled out a card, jotted some numbers on the back, and pushed it toward Shulman. "Here's a card – my office number's on the front, and I put Charlie's office number on the back. You should be able to reach him there."

Shulman nodded, took the card, and rose. "Thank you again for your patience and understanding."

Don nodded and watched him depart, absently swirling the lukewarm coffee left in his cup. He had decided he liked Aaron Shulman as much as he liked the man's father, and he had the sense that he and Aaron Shulman were probably somewhat alike – even in looks; Shulman was roughly his age, his height, wore his hair the same way. Acted rashly on occasion, too; Don had to admit, he had a tendency to do that himself. No wonder Rabbi Shulman had taken a shine to him – Don probably reminded him of his own son.

He also knew that Shulman wasn't the only one who needed to apologize to Charlie, and like Shulman, he was going to make sure he did that today.

**...**

Charlie frowned and gingerly rubbed his eyes, before turning back to his laptop. His office was quiet; he had time between classes, and he spent it as he tended to spend most of his free time these days – going back over the Tuttle/Montague case, looking for something they missed. Jim Montague was adamant that Tuttle was involved, but there was no way to prove it, not with the current evidence. Tuttle's men were definitely connected, but each of them swore that they had been retained by Montague, behind Tuttle's back. No one really believed that, but the prosecutor had such a good case against Montague, he wasn't trying too hard to discount it for fear he would ruin his case. Like their earlier case against Tuttle, someone else was taking the fall, and J. Everett Tuttle was walking free.

There was one other person who was certainly involved, and that was Audrey Montague. They had used her brother's accounts as a front, as a place to hide the money, and she was the trustee – she _had_ to have known about the plot. Oh, she admitted she knew that Jim Montague was funneling money through the accounts, but she said she didn't know it was stolen, and maintained that Jim Montague had lied to her about the legality of it. Neither Don nor Charlie believed that, and Charlie had become convinced that she was the weak link, the chink in the armor of their web of lies. Even Jim Montague didn't contradict her story – he seemed as bent on protecting her as he was on implicating Tuttle. Charlie had been poring over the records of electronic transactions, trying to tie them to phone records, anything that that might indicate that Audrey had truly known what was going on.

He peered at the screen, and blinked. He could enlarge the font on some of the documents so that it was easier to read, but some of them were scanned files, and would only enlarge so much. He couldn't wait for his appointment the next day; he'd be fitted with his new contact lenses. Finally, he'd be able see clearly again – at least out of one eye. The thought made him think of the evening before, and shift uncomfortably in his chair at the memory. He wasn't sure which had upset him more; the thought that what his brother said might be true, that he really would end up legally blind in one eye, or Don's obvious irritation with him. No, make that anger. Don usually had more self-control than to pick an argument in front of others, even if the others were practically family. There was no doubt in Charlie's mind that his brother had thought he had lied to him, and was significantly irked. Angry. Pissed off. Furious…

"Charlie."

Charlie jumped at the sound of Don's voice, and turned his head toward the door. He could make out a head sticking through it, topped with dark hair, about the right height for Don. "Don?"

The door opened wider, and Don stepped through it, and shut it behind him. "Sorry. I knocked, but I didn't think you could hear me. Or maybe you did…," he trailed off, uncertainly, then began again. "I could hear you typing. Anyway, I won't keep you long. I just wanted to say -,"

Charlie had been expecting a lecture, and decided to head it off. He really hadn't been entirely forthcoming as far as his progress had gone, and had never considered that Don might feel slighted at not being kept up to date. If an apology would set things right, then so be it. "I'm sorry," he blurted, and the words came out in stereo, duplicated by Don.

It took Charlie a moment to realize that Don had actually said, "I'm sorry," also, and as he did, he stared at him blankly for a split second. He opened his mouth to speak, but Don raised a hand. "No, let me say this, Chuck. I screwed up yesterday – or maybe I screwed up a few days ago. When Dr. Shulman told me about your eye, I should have talked to you directly, instead of just hoping you would bring it up. I just assumed you gave him the information, and that you were purposely leaving me out of the loop. I felt, uh, bad, you know…," he trailed off again, and Charlie squinted. Was his brother blushing? Don cleared his throat and started talking again. "Well, I just felt that we'd gotten closer, recently, and I was upset when I thought you weren't being straight with me. I'm sorry for the scene last night, but I'm more sorry for doubting you."

Charlie shook his head slowly. "It's okay. I _haven't_ told you everything, but there really hasn't been a lot to tell. Dr. Cooper did say that my right eye wasn't progressing as well as my left, but he never said it wouldn't heal. He's been saying all along that it would take time." His last two sentences were spoken with just a hint of defensiveness, and Charlie took a breath, and tried to speak more calmly. "Look, I have an appointment tomorrow. Dr. Cooper is going to fit my contacts, which should improve my vision a lot. I talked to Dr. Shulman earlier, and his advice was for us to go directly to the source - I think that's a good idea. Why don't you come along, and we can ask him about my right eye?"

Don had moved closer, and Charlie could now see his expressions. There was relief there, certainly, but there was also a bit of doubt. "You wouldn't care?"

Charlie grinned at him, with a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach from Don's admission. His brother had felt it too, then; that they had gotten even closer as a result of their ordeal. "Of course I wouldn't care. I'm sure there was just a misunderstanding on Dr. Shulman's part. Dr. Cooper should clear it all up." He grinned, a little self-consciously. "Besides, sometimes I have a little difficulty getting him to slow down and speak plainly - hell, maybe _I'm_ the one who misunderstood. Maybe he'll go over the situation again for your benefit, and if that doesn't work, you can lock him up and interrogate him." Charlie's eyes twinkled, teasingly, and Don smiled back as Charlie continued, his inflection sincere. "From now on, I'll be straight with you on all of it." He reddened a little. "I got the same lecture from Amita, last night, for not telling _her_ everything. I guess I need to be a little more forthcoming. Although, when I get my contact lenses, you guys shouldn't have to worry so much about me. I should be able to see fairly normally."

Don had come up next to the desk, and Charlie could see his face relax and a look of curiosity steal over it as he glanced at Charlie's laptop. "What are you working on?"

Charlie sighed. "Oh, I've been going over the case files again, trying to tie the timing of the electronic fund transactions to phone calls between Jim and Audrey Montague, and Tuttle. The problem is, there aren't many phone calls. If they were communicating by phone, they must have been using prepaid cell phones, or something else untraceable."

Don stared at the screen for a moment. "You still think Audrey was involved?"

"I'm sure of it," Charlie said firmly. "Aren't you?"

Don let out a breath, then nodded, slowly, but with conviction. "Yeah, buddy, I am. Without a doubt."

Charlie gave him a brisk nod. "That's why I'm digging into her records, and Mark Vincent's accounts. I think she's the key to all of this."

"Charlie -," Don began, then broke off, hesitating.

Charlie searched his face, trying to read his expression. "What?"

"Don't you think you're pushing it a little hard?" Don waved his hand vaguely at the office and Charlie's computer. "Back to teaching classes already -,"

"Just a few-,"

"- and working on this case? Which, technically, isn't an official case; in fact the prosecutor might have a problem with us digging around in this before he's gotten Montague to trial."

"I would think he'd rather have the truth, if we can tie Audrey and Tuttle to it, also."

"Maybe," said Don, doubtfully. "It's just – we got in trouble that way before, by digging around in something on our own. And you just – don't look up to it yet. You look tired all the time. You're still experiencing some significant pain in your eye. You should be home, recuperating."

Charlie felt an equal flush of pleasure and guilt – pleasure that his brother was concerned about him, and guilt associated with the fact that deep down, he had the sense that Don was right. He didn't want to admit it, but he _was_ pushing it. Worse yet, he was using his pain medication as an enabler; burying the stress from the recent attacks and the worries over his vision in his increasingly frequent doses of tramadol. He shrugged off the nagging thought. The pain medication was simply a necessary evil while his eyes healed, and a temporary one at that. "I'm fine," he insisted. "You'll see when we visit Dr. Cooper tomorrow. I'm fine."

**...**

Mark Vincent stared at the computer monitor, concentrating with all his might, and the cursor wavered, lurched an inch upward, and stopped.

"That's it," said the man in the white coat beside him, encouragingly. "Now that you know what that feels like, try it again."

It was Mark's first training session with the Omega Research Group, and he was working with a man named Jim Trace. Mark had been fitted with electrodes that could measure brain activity, and they had completed nearly a half hour's worth of unsuccessful trials before Mark could manage to move the cursor. Now that he'd done it, though, he realized he'd been trying too hard. All he had to do was relax, and think of where he wanted to put it…

"There you go!" said Trace, as the cursor lurched again. He pointed at the screen, which contained a picture of a keypad. "You can type words using the keypad, by moving your cursor over the keys – they'll display in a message block at the top of the screen. Once you get used to it, you can also run this computer like anyone else does – if you want to surf the Internet, click on that icon, and then type in what you want to search – we set you up with access, so you can access what you want. It will take some practice, but we will leave you hooked up so you can try it whenever you want. We have a subprogram running that will record what you write or what you access, so we can assess your progress. Now, I want to see if you can type out a simple reply. How about the word 'yes'? Move the cursor, that's right…,"

It took Mark another hour, but he finally managed, after several jerky attempts, to type 'yes' using the virtual keyboard on the computer. Before he departed, Trace urged him not to be discouraged; that it would take weeks of practice to be able to move the cursor consistently to where he wanted it. Discouraged was the last emotion Mark felt at that moment, however. After years of being unable to communicate, he had finally said something – even if it was a simple three-letter word. As the door shut behind the researcher, Mark stared at the screen, and watched the cursor move, jerkily, toward the keyboard, and muscles in his face twitched, pulling one side of his mouth into a faint, lopsided smile.

**...**

Dr. Cooper poked his head out of the exam room door, and nodded at Don. "Okay, we're done with Charlie's exam. He asked me if you could come in and sit in our discussion."

Don rose, trying to read the expression on Cooper's face. "If it's okay -,"

"Certainly," said Cooper. His smile was merely courteous, Don decided, and it didn't reach his eyes. He shook off a feeling of trepidation, and walked through the door that the doctor held open for him.

He relaxed as he saw Charlie. Charlie was sitting in the exam chair, and he beamed as Don entered. "I have my lens in," he said. "I can actually see you."

Dr. Cooper nodded. "We're using a soft contact lens; and are getting very good correction for his left eye – close to 20-20. That eye is still changing with each visit, and he'll probably need to change the lens prescription more than once while it stabilizes. It should be good for at least a month, however. He'll be allowed to wear the lens only a few hours each day – when he's on campus if he wishes, and the rest of the time I would like him to wear glasses, to make sure we don't stress the eye. We are holding off on a lens for the right eye for the time being." He settled behind his large desk, closed a file folder on its surface, and spoke a little impatiently. "Now, Charlie said you two had some questions for me, and he wanted you to be part of the discussion. What's on your mind?"

Don looked at Charlie, and Charlie looked back at him, and then straightened and turned toward the doctor. "We had a little misunderstanding earlier this week with Dr. Shulman," he said. "Somehow, Shulman reviewed your notes and came away with the idea that I am legally blind in my right eye."

Don saw a shadow pass over Cooper's face, faint, then it was gone, but his expression was serious as he answered, speaking more slowly. "Ah, yes, I spoke to Shulman last evening." He paused, and continued gently. "Charlie, you _are_ legally blind in your right eye."

Charlie waved a hand, unconcerned. "I _know_ that – at least, for right now. But the healing process could take weeks, or months – you said that yourself."

Cooper hesitated, and in that brief moment, Don felt his heart drop. He could sense what was coming, but Charlie didn't, apparently; he was looking at Cooper expectantly.

Cooper rubbed his forehead, a gesture of capitulation. "Charlie, I have to say, I have been reluctant to give you a solid prognosis, because your eyes _are_ still healing. I never meant to imply, however, that I was sure they would come back one hundred percent. It has been long enough now that I believe I can – and apparently, after the confusion this week – _should_ give you an outlook. I think there's a good chance of full recovery, or close to it, in your left eye. Your right eye, however, is not improving at all. It hasn't changed during the last two visits. I'm afraid, Charlie, that your right eye will not come back; in fact, I am projecting little change from what it is now. That is why I suggested therapy at your last appointment; therapy designed to help you function with sight in only one eye. I fear that the blindness in that eye is going to be permanent."

Don felt his heart twist as he looked at Charlie; the expectant, optimistic look had fled, Charlie's shoulders had slumped, and he sat there motionless for a moment, his lips parted as if he were about to speak, but couldn't find the words. '_Charlie, I'm sorry_,' he thought to himself, filled with remorse at the desolate expression on his younger brother's face. He'd looked so happy just a moment ago. '_This is all my fault…,_'

Charlie closed his mouth, swallowed, then lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders. "That's okay," he said evenly. "It's not a problem. Even if either of my eyes didn't improve any more, I see great with the contact lens in my left eye."

If Don felt terrible before, he really felt low as he watched Charlie try to put on a brave front – for his sake, Don suspected. Dr. Cooper thought as much, too; Don hadn't missed his quick, assessing glance at him as Charlie spoke. As stunned as Charlie had been by the news, he was shrugging it off, trying to pretend it didn't matter, because Don was in the room.

"Do you have any further questions?" Dr. Cooper asked gently.

"I'll need the name and number for the therapist," said Charlie, his tone still a little lighter than it should have been.

Dr. Cooper nodded. "I also need to write you out another prescription for tramadol," he said. "That is one thing I _do_ expect to improve – those stabbing pains that you feel in your right eye should diminish with time. You also need to be careful not to strain your left eye – you will be more tempted to use it with the corrective lenses, and you need to ration close work – reading, using the computer, and so forth. Try to limit that to your time at school." He looked at Don. "Any questions from you?"

Don felt like asking if Cooper could prescribe something for suffocating guilt, but he shook his head.

He almost didn't hear Charlie when his brother rose, looked toward the door, and spoke to him. "Let's get going – I need to pick out some frames."

Don waited until they were out in the car before he attempted to speak himself, and then he turned toward Charlie. "Charlie, I'm so sorry -," he began.

Charlie gestured impatiently. "For what? It wasn't your fault, Don – you weren't the one who hit me." He turned and looked at him earnestly, his dark eyes wide. "I told you before, I don't regret it – not a minute of it – and I'd do it all over again if I had to. It could have been a lot worse, Don – if this is all we have to deal with, I'm counting us lucky."

Don's heart swelled, and for a moment it was so full – of regret and pride, of sadness and admiration – that he was afraid he might break down. He turned away and started the car, and emotion made his voice gruff. "Let's get your glasses, before the store closes."

Charlie looked forward, out the windshield. "Can we stop at the pharmacy on the way? I'd like to get the tramadol prescription filled."

Don shot him a glance. "Didn't Shulman write you a prescription when you hurt your arm?"

Charlie shook his head. "I had a few left from Dr. Cooper's last prescription," he said, and his voice held the same flat, even tone it had when he sat in the doctor's office, saying that it didn't matter. He sat up in his seat, his shoulders still back and head up, but in profile, his posture looked rigid, forced. His next words sounded even more forced than his body language. "Wow, this contact lens is amazing! I can really see again."

Don said nothing; he couldn't, around the lump in his throat. Instead, he drove to the pharmacy, and waited in the car while Charlie went in to fill his prescription. Charlie had more or less insisted, and although Don wanted to go with him, he had to admit that Charlie seemed to be moving more easily now that he had the contact lens inserted. His brother had been through a lot this afternoon, so Don acquiesced and let Charlie go by himself; he could probably use some time alone.

**...**

Charlie had been almost more stunned by Cooper's offer of tramadol than he had been about the news regarding his eye. His first thought was that Dr. Cooper must understand that Dr. Shulman had already written a tramadol prescription for Charlie; it must be written in his file, somewhere. But Cooper had stood briskly, and Charlie had followed suit, watching with both hope and fear as the doctor scribbled illegibly on a prescription pad, glancing at his watch at the same time. Charlie began to consider the situation. Supposing the always-harried Dr. Cooper had not taken the time to carefully read Dr. Shulman's report? Charlie wondered briefly if he should say something - but his craving for additional tramadol momentarily stayed his tongue.

When the doctor ripped off the prescription sheet and extended it toward Charlie, the professor grabbed it avidly; so quickly he feared his eagle-eyed brother might question him. Charlie had tried to distract Don with blather about glasses – but it turned out that Don had been mired in his own presumed guilt, and hadn't noticed anything unusual.

Now, Charlie breathed a sigh of relief as he handed the prescription to a clerk and took a seat in the waiting area. He expected it to take at least a few minutes to fill the prescription, and he was surprised when he heard his name called. He squinted at the large clock on the wall, wondering how long it had been, and felt himself stiffen when he saw who was waiting for him at the patient counseling center. Rather than a clerk holding a tiny brown bottle, he saw a stern-looking man in a white lab coat, still holding his prescription. He swallowed thickly and then stood and approached the counter. "Is there a problem?" he asked timidly.

The pharmacist shook the prescription at him. "Checked the database. We like to keep fairly close track of narcotics. You've got another active prescription for tramadol, and it's too soon for a refill." He frowned at Charlie.

Charlie felt his gut flutter. Could he get in trouble for trying to get this prescription filled, when he already had one? If he acted as if he hadn't known it was a problem – and he hadn't – maybe the man would give him a break. He fell back on the attitude that had helped him secure the prescription from Dr. Shulman in the first place. "Oh...that's all right, then. It's... it's good that we have a database for this sort of thing; I didn't know."

"Apparently," sniffed the pharmacist, still holding the prescription.

Charlie held himself ramrod-straight, and looked the man in the eye. "I'll just wait until it's time for a refill on the original prescription." He smiled ingratiatingly and hoped he could still pull off what, during their childhoods, Don had labeled _'The Wounded Puppy Look'_; hopefully, one blind eye wouldn't ruin the effect. "It's my fault, anyway." He lowered his voice, almost whispering confidentially. "You see, I recently lost the sight in one eye, and I haven't adjusted yet. I never should have left the bottle sitting next to the bathroom sink. I took half a pill this morning, set the open bottle down, and left the water running so I could brush my teeth." He tried to laugh, and shrugged with embarrassment. "I'm such a klutz these days; when I reached for the toothpaste, I knocked the bottle into the sink. It was uncapped, the water was running, and before I knew what was happening, the last pill was swirling down the drain. I mentioned it to my ophthalmologist during my regular appointment - more as a joke than anything else - but he insisted on writing me a new prescription to tide me over until it's time for a refill." He frowned and tilted his head. "You'd think he would have known that I wouldn't be able to fill it."

The pharmacist glanced at the slip of paper in his hand. "Cooper," he sniffed. "We've had trouble with him before. Doesn't like to pay any attention to the rules."

Charlie tried to turn up the puppy wattage. "Well, he's very busy. Really, I'm sorry I wasted your time. Just throw that away."

The pharmacist hesitated. "The doctor's name on the other prescription was Shulman."

Charlie nodded. "That's correct; my orthopedist." He laughed again, hoping he didn't sound nervous. "Told you I'm a klutz. I also fractured my arm, in the accident that left me blind in one eye...then I re-injured my arm, the _very same day_ the cast was finally removed!"

The man shook his head in sympathy. "Sounds like you haven't had a good year."

Charlie smiled. "I've had better. Now that I understand about the database, is it all right if we just pretend this never happened? You can shred the prescription, maybe."

"Have much pain?" asked the pharmacist.

Charlie shrugged. "Oh, I'll be all right. The doctor says my eye should calm down, soon." This was too good to be true. He'd been simply trying to stay out of hot water, and now the man was actually sounding as if he'd changed his mind. Was the pharmacist going to fill this, after all? He tried not to look too hopeful.

The pharmacist leaned forward, lowering his voice. "I can override the system; there are protocols for accidental destruction of medication." He straightened again, the stern expression back on his face. "I won't do this again — no pharmacist will, they'll see my notation in the database."

Charlie's heart leapt, but he managed to keep his expression neutral. "Honestly, sir, I'll be fine; I don't want you to go out of your way..."

The pharmacist sniffed. "I'm not, young man. I told you, we have protocols for this. Just take a seat. I'll only be a few minutes."

Charlie bumped into something on the way back to the waiting area; not because he couldn't see it, but because he was walking in a dream state. He sank into a chair, his legs becoming almost boneless as it fully hit him what had happened. He had just lied, shamelessly, to a pharmacist. He tried to tell himself that he'd just been trying to stay out of trouble, but he knew the truth – those lies were just for a few more tramadol.

What was happening to him?

**...**

End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7: The Blind Leading The Blind

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 7: The Blind Leading the Blind **

**…**

Alan sat at the kitchen table, staring morosely at the empty coffee mug before him. He hadn't been Charlie Eppes' father for 35 years without learning a thing or two about the young man in question. Regardless of – or maybe _because of_ – Charlie's happy mood, Alan sensed a riptide just beneath the surface. That feeling was encouraged when he searched Don's face; his eldest son had been persuaded to join them for dinner the evening before, so Alan had ample opportunity to study. As he did, Alan recognized guilt, fear, anger...few positive emotions, even though Don tried to smile at the appropriate moments, and made a stab at teasing Charlie when the professor modeled his new glasses for his father and his fiancée. How Alan wished that he had managed to corner Don, get him alone for a few moments and ask what was going on. But Don had left almost immediately after dinner – through the front door, while Alan was still putting leftovers away in the kitchen.

The good news was that his sons seemed to be over whatever it was that had been between them, recently. Don's anger during dinner hadn't seemed so much _directed at_ Charlie as it was...well, _protective of_ Charlie. It reminded Alan of the time that Charlie had come home, at eleven years of age, with his first shiner – courtesy of a bully from Don's class, a boy who resented Charlie's refusal to do his homework for him. Yes, the more that Alan thought about it, the more clearly he could see that Don again wanted to beat the hell out of someone for hurting Charlie. That couldn't be good.

Alan started when the cell phone on the table began to vibrate, slowly dancing across the surface of the table. He rolled his eyes – obviously, he had forgotten to switch back to 'ring' mode again – and snatched the phone before it fell over the edge onto the floor. He flipped the cell open and raised it to his ear in one fluid motion. "Alan Eppes, speaking. What can I do for you?"

"My, ain't you the polite one, now?" teased Doris. "This is why I called you instead of one of your sons. You know how to treat a lady."

In spite of his earlier mood, Alan smiled. "Doris! How's Harry – and Sam? You're not calling to tell me one of them is in a Mexican jail, are you?"

Doris chortled in his ear. "No; I managed to keep them both with me. You should see the sombrero I got. Folks ain't never seen the like in Heise, I'm sure!"

From what his sons had told him about Heise, Alan was inclined to agree – but to be polite, he merely changed the subject. "So you enjoyed your time in Mexico, then. Are you still there?"

He almost heard her head shake in a negative response. "No, no, we've been in San Diego for a few days. Seen the zoo, and Harry and I got all wet when some whale jumped all over the place at Sea World. Had to buy souvenir t-shirts."

"That's why they train the whales to do that," joked Alan. "I heard they pay a commission, though. One t-shirt sold equals an extra fish for dinner."

Doris laughed. "Oh, go on with ya. Anyway, you were right when you suggested we drive down this way for a few days during our vacation. Oh! Some of the scenery we saw! The drive was almost better than the destination!"

"The coast highway is a favorite of mine," Alan agreed. "When are you coming back to LA? I can probably recommend a thing or two to occupy your time here, as well."

"No doubt," she agreed drily. "We thought we'd start heading your way in the morning. Sam's only got two weeks of vacation time left – damn near killed him to take a whole month off, as it is, even though he had it coming."

Her tone was growing defensive, if not slightly peeved, and Alan tried to distract her. "Remember, you're all staying here. We have two guest rooms, and I wouldn't hear of anything else."

Doubt crept into her voice. "You're sure, now? We wouldn't want to be any trouble..."

"Nonsense," he answered briskly. "Frankly, my dear, I've been meaning to challenge you to a cook-off. Don has not stopped talking yet about some of the dishes you served him. I dare you to dethrone my brisket."

She giggled. "I make a mean blackberry pie, Alan – even with those frozen berries in the supermarket these days!"

"I counter with apple," he announced archly. "Judges will include Colby, and his partner David. I'd include Amita, but she's vegetarian, so there are several dishes she won't eat."

Doris _tsked_. "No wonder the thing's so tiny. I'll have to make my cream corn casserole for her."

"She may be stuffed with my green beans almandine," Alan pointed out. "Robin will come, if she's back from Portland – but I don't think I should have one son's girlfriend be a judge if the other one isn't. Besides, if you think Amita is small, wait until you meet Robin."

"Perfect," grumbled Doris. "I'll just waddle between the two of them."

Alan snickered. "Doris! Has it escaped your attention that you're the only one of the three who's married?"

"Well, _that_ should be changing soon," she noted. She lowered her voice, as if about to share something confidential with Alan. "How's Chad – I mean, Charlie – doing? He seemed...well...less recovered than I expected. Sam told me Charlie's still working on that mess that brought him and Don to Idaho last summer, and I know he's teaching again. Do you think he's pushing things too hard?"

Alan sighed. "Wouldn't be Charlie if he wasn't, Doris. I just try to be close enough to pick up the pieces when he falls apart."

"You can get hit by shrapnel that way," she retorted shrewdly.

Alan smiled. "Another reason I need you here in the house for a few days." He tried to make his voice jovial. "Speaking of Charlie, he got his new glasses while you've been away. He looks much more like a professor now, instead of one the students! Of course, he intends to switch to a contact lens while he's on campus. He's not taking full advantage of the glasses, in my opinion."

Doris accepted this in silence. Alan was starting to wonder if they'd lost the connection when she finally spoke. "That boy strikes me like a land mine, buried and just waitin' for somebody to step on him just right, so he can take a leg off. He and Harry get on good; I'll have Harry try to talk some sense into Charlie while we're there."

Alan couldn't suppress a sigh. "Yeah," he said. "Good luck with that."

**...**

J. Everett Tuttle tapped his fingers on the desk and waited impatiently for Ralph Nardek to answer his cell. It only took three rings - and Tuttle was usually the epitome of patience - but it had been a long few months.

"Mr. Tutt..."

"Pack your bags," Tuttle interrupted. "The district attorney just declared the investigation into my business practices closed. I can now travel at leisure. I was thinking of wintering in Aruba."

Nardek let a beat pass. "That's a very good idea," he eventually said. "I've managed to funnel a significant chunk of money to your Grand Caymans account. It should easily take you - us - through the winter."

Tuttle's mood darkened. "What does that mean?" he spat. "There should be enough there to last both of us the rest of our lives." He snorted derisively. "Especially now that we cut the bitch loose."

Ralph Nardek was extremely grateful that Tuttle had called via their secure cells. "That was the original plan," he agreed, "but remember - we had to abort long before we intended. We didn't do so well on the international trading market, either."

Tuttle growled into his end of the connection. "Damn every Eppes ever born straight to hell. I hate those guys."

Nardek tried to restore his employer's former mood. "I didn't mean to imply that there's not a shitload of money we can get our hands on now," he backtracked. "I just wanted you to understand that it's not as much as we anticipated."

Now, Tuttle was silent for a few moments. "Pack anyway," he finally said. "I promise you, I will take the Eppes brothers down - after all, third time's a charm. This time, I'm going to do it right. I think spending a few months on a warm beach, immersed in the planning stages, sounds like a very good idea. Wouldn't you agree?"

Nardek considered the way Dr. Charles Eppes had computed circles around him, and felt his blood grow hot in his veins. "Yes," he grinned into the cell. "I think that's an excellent idea."

**...**

Amita had been crying.

Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, her face puffy. Alan took one look at her and grew instantly livid. "What did he do to you?" he demanded angrily. To his chagrin, her eyes filled with tears again. "What did _I_ do?" he added, horrified.

She smiled tremulously and brushed away the evidence as an errant tear ran down her face. "Nothing," she assured him, crossing the kitchen to stand behind him where he still sat at the table. "That was just so..._sweet_. My own father wouldn't react so strongly to seeing me upset." She leaned over to kiss the top of his head. "Thank you, Alan," she murmured, snaking her arms around his torso and pressing the side of her face into his.

He reached up to latch onto a slender forearm, effectively trapping her in this position. "Nonsense," he answered gruffly. "You're the daughter Margaret and I always wanted, and if I have to protect you from my own son, I will."

He let go of her arm and she straightened, sighing heavily as she continued around the table to drop into her chair. "Charlie didn't _'do'_ anything to me," she mumbled. "He just told me something...sad."

Alan arched an eyebrow. The Amita he knew wasn't given to extreme emotional displays. "It must have been pretty sad."

She just smiled and nodded silently. Alan was about to press for more details when the door swung open again, and Charlie entered the kitchen, sporting his new glasses. Papa Eppes didn't bother with formalities. "What did you say that upset Amita so much?"

Charlie had been headed toward the refrigerator, but he looked at Amita and came to the table, instead. His expression seemed to darken with concern for a moment, but by the time he settled in his chair next to her, and looked at Alan, his face was a carefully composed mask. "I told her there was nothing to get so upset about," he defended.

Amita's chin came up and her dark eyes flashed. "Why don't we let Alan decide if I'm over-reacting? You were going to tell him this morning, anyway."

Alan looked at Amita, and then Charlie, feeling as if he were at a tennis match. His heart rate increased a little in anticipation. "What?" he asked warily.

Charlie dropped his gaze to the surface of the table. "It's no big deal," he repeated. "It's really not even that big of a surprise, considering how often I bruise my hip on the dining room table." He raised his gaze briefly, then let it fall to the table again. "When I saw Dr. Cooper yesterday, he said that he doesn't expect much more improvement in my right eye."

Amita crossed her arms over her chest. "Which makes him legally blind in that eye," she pointed out, her voice trembling a little. "Charlie is never going to see any better in that eye than he does now."

Alan brought one hand toward his mouth. "Oh, my God," he breathed through his fingers.

Charlie stood quickly, shoving slightly shaking hands into the pockets of his jeans. "What's wrong with that?" he almost shouted. "I can see almost perfectly with my left eye, now that I'm using vision correction - and it might even get better!"

Alan started to stand, as well. "Charlie, son..."

The man in question interrupted him. "I'm fine. Like I told Don, I'd do everything I did again, in the same circumstances - and if _this_ is the only long-term ramification to the Montague fraud, I say we're both blessed!" He removed one hand from his pocket and ran it exasperatedly through his curls. "I wish everybody wouldn't make such an issue out of this!" Before Alan, now standing, could think of an appropriate response, his son pivoted on his heel and headed back the way he had come. "I'm not hungry," he announced. "I'm going back upstairs to...grade papers."

He strode from the kitchen, and found that he could not get up the stairs fast enough. He wasn't truly aiming for the stack of exams in his bedroom, though - he was thinking of the tramadol in the bathroom. He hadn't taken any that morning, determined to wean himself from the narcotic - but that had been a mistake.

He would start the weaning process tomorrow.

.**...**

End, Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8: Battles

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 8: Battles **

**…**

Colby stepped out of his car in front of the Craftsman and stretched, waiting as David pulled up and parked behind him. It was Saturday, and the cookout at the Eppes home was in full swing. He could see from the assorted vehicles that the others were already there – Liz, Nikki, Don, Amita – well, of course, Amita lived here these days. And the folks from Heise, Idaho must be there as well, he thought, as his eyes fell on the rental vehicle parked a few cars up from his own vehicle.

He looked back as David shut the door of his SUV, took a step forward to join him, and then stopped as David gave him a polite nod, and started for the Craftsman. Colby stared, taken aback. The guy had to have seen that he was standing there waiting for him. "Hey, David, man, wait up!"

David paused, his face impassive, but he waited until Colby reached his side. Colby scowled at him. "What'd you think I was doing there, anyway?"

David shrugged and looked skyward as he started toward the house, face expressionless under dark glasses. Colby's scowl deepened. David had been remote, polite but distant for the last few weeks. It hadn't been anything Colby could put his finger on, but it felt uncomfortably like how David had acted after Colby's stint as a supposed double agent for the Chinese. Now, today, David had ignored him – a decided snub. "What's with you, anyway? You've been uptight for the last couple of weeks."

David's face turned toward him, briefly, then away. Colby couldn't see his eyes behind the dark lenses, but his imagination supplied the quick guarded glance. Sinclair's voice was noncommittal. "Nothing's 'with me.' What's with you?"

The cold retort stopped Colby in his tracks, and he stood there open-mouthed as David strode onward, toward the back of the house. Colby had known that something was bothering David, but he assumed it was something not related to him – work, maybe, or something personal. He'd hinted at it once or twice, trying to get David to open up, unsuccessfully, never dreaming that the problem might be him. Even now, as he stood there and searched his memory, he could think of nothing he'd said or done that would have offended the man – but in spite of that, he was now certain that somehow, David's cool demeanor was directed at him.

**…..**

Mark Vincent stared at the screen, and mentally clicked on the icon that read, 'Recipes.'

A few days into his sessions, he was already navigating the computer screen with relative ease – although no one was truly aware of his progress – especially not Audrey. Audrey still thought him a mindless vegetable, and scoffed at the researchers who told her that they suspected his mind was whole – that he was a victim of a rare condition called 'encapsulation,' in which the mind was active and alive, but the body could not respond. Now with this amazing new technology that mapped the brain's electrical impulses, he could communicate again. The knowledge, however, had to be kept from Audrey – that had become abundantly clear over the past few days.

Audrey was rapidly going downhill. She was constantly high, or drunk, or both, and when she was, she had a habit of coming in and ranting to Mark. He didn't quite understand all her ramblings at first, but the more she went on, the more he began to suspect that she had been involved in something illegal recently – and she had used his accounts to try to pull it off. Her angry rants made it clear that the scheme, whatever it was, had been unsuccessful, but she had piqued his curiosity, and when she was out of the room, he spent his time trying to access her personal files. He hadn't found anything, until today. He had watched her come in that morning, get on the computer and access a file called 'Recipes,' a name so innocuous that he hadn't bothered to look at it. She had pulled up some documents that looked like account statements, however – documents that didn't look anything like recipes. He couldn't get a good look with her in front of the screen, but after she left, he'd spent the better part of the morning trying to open the file – with no success. It was locked, and could only be opened with a password.

He had tried for an hour, racking his brains, trying everything he could think of, and finally, inspiration struck. Clicking one letter at a time with the cursor, he typed in the name of her favorite imported vodka, and his heart beat just a bit harder, as the file opened. He paused for a moment, listening, even though he was quite sure she had had left the house, and clicked open the first file folder.

**…**

Don's eyes narrowed as he watched Charlie stroll past their father, who was manning the grill, and drift across the lawn, as he thought back over the last few weeks. His brother had seemed to rebound from their forced flight and all of the attendant danger – almost too well. Of course, he'd been upset when he'd found out about Charlie's permanent blindness, and even more upset when he'd thought that Charlie had kept it from him. No he'd been more than upset; it had hurt, and even though they'd ironed it out, the memory of it still stung a little. True, Charlie had seemed as surprised by a diagnosis of permanent blindness as Don had been, and although Don was sure his brother was being truthful that he really hadn't known about his outlook that day in the doctor's office, there was still something about him – something not right.

He glanced sideways, momentarily distracted by David's appearance, and Colby coming just behind him. David walked up to greet Liz and Nikki, who were chatting with Robin, and Colby hesitated just a split second, his eyes on the group, and then veered over to greet Alan, and the contingent of guests from Heise – the Sacketts and Sam Jarrett – who were clustered around the grill. Don looked back at Charlie.

Yes, there was definitely something not right. Charlie's usual gait had a little bounce in it; today it had none – he was shuffling, with one hand in his pocket, his shoulders a bit slumped. He was trying to look nonchalant, but there was tension in the studied casualness – in his mannerisms, too. His free hand would occasionally dart somewhere – to rub his eyebrow, to brush at his ear, to touch his collar – in a nervous, jerky gesture. It almost reminded Don of … He broke off his musings and shook his head as if to clear it, and snorted with soft derision at himself. He'd been about to say Charlie's mannerisms reminded him of a junkie coming down off a high, but that was ridiculous. After everything Charlie had been through lately, a bit of residual tension was completely understandable. True, he was on some serious pain medication, but the doctor wouldn't prescribe more than a patient could handle – and there were systems in place at the pharmacy even if the doctor made a mistake.

He sighed, shook off his trepidation, and headed for the cooler, for another beer.

**…**

Amita smiled as Charlie approached her, but it faded as he stopped in front of her, and closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Headache?" she asked.

"Yeah," he muttered, and sighed, opened his eyes, and looked at her apologetically, and bit grumpily. "I guess I'm just not in the mood for this today."

Her eyebrows rose. "You haven't been much in the mood for anything, lately," she teased gently. She was only half in jest; he hadn't been himself – he'd been fluctuating between distant and dreamy, and short and irritable. She had been meaning to suggest that he talk to someone about what he'd gone through, maybe get some therapy, and this was a perfect opportunity.

She opened her mouth to continue, but he scowled and retorted stiffly, "I'm sorry if I haven't been attending to you the way I should – I've had just a little bit on my mind, lately."

She flushed. "Charlie, that's not what I meant."

He looked at her skeptically, and she could still see the hurt and anger in his face. "Well, it sure sounded that way."

She took a deep breath, trying to fight down a flash of frustration. She'd been trying to be patient with him, but he'd been anything but easy to live with, lately. "Look, all I wanted to say was, maybe you should talk to someone, get some therapy. You're obviously still not over what happened -,"

"I'm fine," he said, through clenched teeth. "I don't know why everyone keeps making a deal out of this. I can see fine."

She stared at him, gaping a little, and shook her head. "Charlie, I didn't say a word about your sight."

"You didn't have to."

She frowned. He was starting to make her angry, in spite of herself. "I'm talking about your mental state, not your vision."

"There's nothing wrong with my mental state," he insisted.

"Well, you could have fooled me," she retorted, her eyes flashing. For a split second, his scowl vanished. He looked wounded, and she tried to backpedal. "Charlie, I'm sorry, I'm trying to support you, but I feel like an enabler, here, letting you go on this way without saying anything. You need to get some help."

His face had closed again; the scowl was back. "Enabler? Just what are you implying?"

She rolled her eyes in frustration. "Nothing, Charlie -," but he spun away from her.

"Forget it," he tossed back over his shoulder. "I don't need that kind of '_support_,' okay?"

He strode off, angrily, and she bit back a sharp retort of her own, and let out a sigh of exasperation.

**…**

Mark Vincent read through the third document with a mental frown, and clicked it closed. Audrey had kept reports of his accounts – with her power of attorney status, she was in charge of keeping track of them, after all – but what did seem odd was that there were so many. Some had apparently been closed, and his net worth seemed to be significantly less than it had been even a year ago, according to the files. Even with her drug habit, Audrey couldn't possibly have frittered away that much money. He wasn't certain, but he didn't think it could be part of her divorce settlement with her ex-husband, Jim Montague – they weren't really her funds, after all; they were Mark's – she was simply the trustee. He couldn't quite figure out where the money had gone – there were so many small accounts, so many documents, and finally he closed that file, and opened another one.

This one was an eye-opener. It contained nothing but scanned newspaper articles and links to online news stories – all of them related to what had apparently been some kind of scam, or electronic theft. As he began to read, his pulse quickened. Apparently Audrey, Jim, and a man named J. Everett Tuttle had been implicated in an electronic theft scheme, funneling money from several small businesses – into many small accounts. Suddenly, Audrey's file loaded with the paperwork from numerous accounts made sense. They had been using _his_ accounts to hide the stolen money. As he read on, he found that the man named Tuttle and Audrey had dodged their charges – Audrey had claimed ignorance, stated that Jim Montague had been directing where the money went, and that she didn't know where it came from. Jim Montague, apparently, was taking the fall – but Mark was sure that Audrey had known what was happening. She'd been handling his accounts for years – she wasn't that dense, and besides, there had been some statements she'd made during some of her rants…

He frowned just slightly with concentration, trying to recall some of the things she'd said. He'd written it off as nonsense, but he did remember a name – it was the name of the FBI agent on the case – Eppes. One of the articles had done an in-depth story on the man's brother, a mathematician, who had helped to crack the case. He was sure that Audrey had used both of their names during her rants. He tried to think about what else she might have said, but he just couldn't remember – he really hadn't taken her seriously. He was going to have to pay more attention in the future…

"For what? What good will it do?" he asked himself, but as much as he wanted to deny, he knew the answer to that. Audrey was growing increasingly unstable, and if she'd truly been involved in theft – a theft that had ultimately led to attempted murder – she was more desperate and more dangerous than Mark had imagined. _How_ desperate was extremely important, because there was still a lot of money at stake – and his continued existence was the only thing that was keeping her from it. He'd thought she cared about him, but did she really? And if not, how far gone was she? Far enough to steal, apparently – was she far enough to commit murder? He could feel a chill creeping down his spine, as he carefully closed the files. He had to figure out whether she'd truly been involved in the scheme, what she was capable of – and even more to the point, what she was planning.

**…..**

Colby waited for his chance, and when David separated from the group of women and headed for the cooler, Colby set a course for interception. He reached the cooler at the same time, pretending to go for a beer himself, although he'd left a half-full one near the grill. "So, what's going on?" he said quietly, as he reached in for a beer, and handed one to David.

David hesitated, then took the beer, his face still impassive. He'd perched his sunglasses on top of his head so Colby could now see his eyes, but he couldn't read the expression in them. "What's going on with what?" David deflected the question.

Colby grabbed a beer of his own, and straightened. "Come man, you're pissed off at me, and I want to know why."

David smiled then, but it wasn't a friendly expression, and he looked away and shook his head. "I really need to spell it out for you."

"Yeah," said Colby, his voice rising slightly with frustration and a bit of anger of his own. "What was it – was it something I said?"

David snorted softly and grimaced, his eyes still on the far side of the yard. "More like what you didn't say." He turned toward Colby and looked at him directly for the first time that day, his dark eyes flashing, his voice low, but filled with angry intensity. "You worked the Montague case all that time, and you didn't say a word to me. You and Wright both – you kept me in the dark, treated me like some kind of wet-behind-the-ears intern. I can understand Wright; he doesn't know me personally, and I get that Don and Charlie's safety was at stake. But you – you do know me. You know I had nothing to do with their disappearance, and you couldn't drop me a hint – not even to tell me that they were still alive? I never pictured you as someone who would step on his partner in order to suck up to the boss, but I guess I was wrong. You know, I lost my trust in you during the China espionage fiasco, and after that it took awhile, but I finally decided you were worth trusting again. Now?" He paused, glaring at Colby. "I'm not so sure I was right." Then he turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving Colby staring, speechless, after him.

**…**

Don had drifted over to talk to the grill, and joined the group there, idly listening to Doris and his father amiably discuss the secrets of a good pie. He'd intended to chat with Colby, who just appeared to be standing there on the outskirts of the group, but Colby took off for the cooler just as he got there. Charlie and Amita were talking on the far side of the yard, and as Don turned something about their body language caught his attention. They appeared to be arguing, and as Don focused in that direction, he glanced past the cooler, and couldn't help but notice that Colby and David's exchange didn't exactly appear to be jovial, either. "Some party," he muttered to himself, just as David turned on his heel. At nearly the same moment, Charlie spun away from Amita, and strode for the house.

He had his fingertips to his forehead, and he looked to be either angry, or in pain, or both. Don turned and caught his father's eye as Charlie hurried past them, and into the house with the slam of the screen door. Don answered his father's unspoken request. "I'll check on him," he said quietly, as he passed him, and Alan nodded gratefully, and turned back to the ribs on the grill, and entertaining their guests.

"You know what I use on my ribs?" Harry Sackett's voice floated after him, as Don entered the house. "Apple juice. You marinate them…"

Don lost the rest of the conversation as the screen door closed behind him, and he crossed the kitchen. As he pushed through the door, he heard a thump from upstairs, and then another – it sounded as if Charlie was throwing things. With a frown, he ascended the stairs and as he did, he heard Charlie's footsteps in the hall, and then rummaging in the bathroom cabinet, and a muttered – and very uncharacteristic for Charlie – curse. Don paused outside the door. "Looking for something?" he asked quietly.

Charlie's head jerked around, he scowled, and turned back to the medicine cabinet. "Pain pill," he groused. "I have a nasty headache. I can't find them – I thought they were in the bedroom -,"

He went back to rummaging with an energy that was frantic enough to be disturbing – it was almost panicked and made Don think again of an addict looking for his next fix. He shrugged off the thought, and headed for the bedroom. He could see the bottle as soon as he stepped through the doorway – it was lying under Charlie's desk – and he stepped over to it and bent to retrieve it, reading the label as he straightened, just to be sure it was the right one. Yes, tramadol, but wait – the doctor's name was wrong. Aaron Shulman's name was on the bottle, instead of Charlie's ophthalmologist, Dr. Cooper.

Don might have thought nothing of that, if he hadn't been in Cooper's office with Charlie, and heard Charlie say he was out of pills. There were pills in this bottle, however, and the prescription date was the date that Charlie had fallen and hurt his arm – just days ago. That meant one thing – Charlie had lied to Cooper – he'd lied to him to get more pills. He recalled his brother's recent mannerisms, the evasiveness, the frantic search for the medication – and Don's gut twisted in a sudden, uncomfortable knot. What was going on here?

He stepped back out through the door, and stood in the hallway. "I found 'em, Charlie," he said quietly, and Charlie's head came up quickly, and a look of relief flooded his face.

**…**

Charlie couldn't help but feel a surge of relief, but he was also somehow embarrassed – he didn't want to seem so needy, so dependent on the medication, in front of Don. Added to that was the fact that he was still riled from his argument with Amita, and the only thing he could think of was to get away from Don's scrutinizing gaze, get off somewhere by himself until the pill could kick in and he could calm down. "Thanks," he said, and snatched the bottle out of Don's hand. He palmed a pill, put the bottle in the medicine cabinet and was on his way out the door, his head down, before Don had a chance to say anything else.

"Charlie, wait," Don said, starting after him.

"What?" Charlie asked, but he kept going, heading for the stairs, hoping Don would take the hint – he was in no mood for a conversation right now – he just wanted to take his medicine and lie down.

"Charlie, that prescription -,"

"What about it?" Charlie kept his head down, kept going, but his gut tightened, guiltily.

Don's voice had risen, behind him. "You lied, Charlie, to Dr. Cooper – you had a prescription already, and you asked him for more. I want to know why."

Charlie had reached the stairs, and he spun around, suddenly filled with nearly unbearable frustration. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone? "I couldn't find them, okay? I didn't know where they were, so I asked for more. What is this, anyway?"

Don had stopped and they faced each other across the top of the stairs, and Charlie spoke again, his voice shaking a little with anger and just a hint of panic. "Look, I don't want to talk now – I have a headache. I just need some space, okay?"

Don kept his voice level, but he was frowning – assessing, judging. Charlie knew he wasn't going to drop it, and heading downstairs would solve nothing, Don would just follow him – and anyway, where would he go? They had a house full of guests. His room seemed the only solution, and suddenly, Charlie was desperate to get to it, and solitude, to get away from Don's keen gaze. He began to push past him, but Don grabbed for his arm. "Wait a minute, Charlie, we're not done here."

"Yes, we are!" Charlie retorted. He pulled his arm away, and then suddenly reversed directions and pushed forward, trying to get past Don to his bedroom. Don kept hold of his arm, but he apparently wasn't anticipating Charlie's sudden change of directions, and obviously thought that Charlie was going to continue down the stairs. He overcompensated as a result, stumbled, and as Charlie pushed past him, reeled and lost his balance. It happened in a split second, and Charlie just had time to turn, his eyes widening in horror, as Don lost his grip on his arm, and tumbled down the stairs.

**...**

End, Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9: Consequences

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 9: Consequences **

**…**

Robin spied Alan, standing over the grill, smiled, and waved a greeting at him. She stopped to dig a bottle of water out of the cooler, and silently regarded Colby while she twisted the cap from the bottle, then lifted the bottle to her mouth. The FBI agent was just a few feet away, clutching an unopened bottle of beer and looking absolutely bereft; as if he had lost his best friend. She followed the track of his eyes, and saw most of Don's team standing and chatting together: David, Nikki, Liz. Phil Wright was standing with them, and Robin was glad to see him. It did not behoove his position as Assistant Director to play favorites among his agents, and he certainly could not be expected to attend everybody's functions. He obviously had made an exception. Perhaps he wanted to meet the family from Idaho – Doris, Harry, and Sam – each, in her or his own way, responsible for keeping Don and Charlie alive last summer.

Even in the warmth of the fall day, Robin shivered. She took another sip of water and looked around for the Idaho folks. She owed them a debt of gratitude herself, and was happy to finally get a chance to meet them. When she had spoken to Don earlier on the phone, he had mentioned that Doris was making a blackberry cobbler, with her own berries: her new camp "administrator", as Harry had finally convinced her to call Arnie, had raided her freezer and shipped some to L.A., packed in dry ice. He had sent some trout for Harry to barbecue, as well. Don had mentioned that the stack of fish might even include the one he'd caught from the bank of the campground, distracting Robin with a deliciously sexy image of a bearded Don, casting the line from his pole. Everything had arrived just in time for the Alan Eppes-Doris Sackett culinary showdown which was the excuse for this get-together. Alan was countering Doris's cobbler with a Dutch apple pie, one of his own specialties. Don had warned Robin to wear loose clothing.

She lowered the bottle, intending to approach Alan and ask him to introduce her, since she hadn't seen Don anywhere. She decided at the last second to veer into Colby's universe. "Agent Granger," she greeted teasingly. "You look a bit perplexed. Waiting for someone strong to open that bottle for you? I could probably do it. I've been working out."

"Huh?" Colby started, as if jerked from a trance, and glanced down at the beer in his hand. He seemed almost surprised to see it. "Huh," he said again, then looked at Robin, grinning wryly. "Think I need something a little stronger, Counselor."

Something possessed Robin to say it; later, she still wasn't sure why she had made the offer. It wasn't as if she and Colby were especially good friends; he just looked so...disturbed, that she found it a little disturbing herself. She winked at him. "Follow me," she stage-whispered. "I know where they keep the good stuff."

Colby laughed, and allowed her to lead the way across the lawn, toward the Craftsman's kitchen entrance. En route, she turned her head toward him, slowing until he drew even with her. "I don't know what _your_ problem is," she said, "but _I_ had to park almost a block away. There's no more room in the driveway."

Colby was no longer grinning. "There's a lot to be said for the ability to make a quick get-away," he answered.

Robin wasn't sure how to respond to that, and remained silent while the two of them climbed the few steps that led to the back porch of the house. They crossed to the door, and Colby surged ahead of her, just far enough so that he could reach the door first, and open it for Robin. She suppressed a smile. Distressed or not, Agent Granger was, in essence, a country boy from Idaho, full of chivalry.

She was about to thank him when the door opened from the inside; the knob was pulled from Colby's hand, throwing him off-balance a little. Robin put a hand on his back, and Colby grabbed at the door casing. "Whoa," he muttered.

Robin peeked over his shoulder to see Charlie, wild-eyed, on the interior of the house. She started to speak, but Charlie was pulling at Colby's arm, trying to drag a man who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, into the house. His voice was frantic. "Help him! Hurry! Don needs help!"

Robin stopped thinking, and started reacting.

**...**

The party was most definitely over.

Doris banged around in the kitchen until she found a stack of freezer containers. Then she began filling them up.

First, she sent the girls, Liz and Nikki, home with enough food to last the rest of the year – and the poor things looked as if they needed it. She loaded them up with things that didn't freeze well: macaroni and potato salads, deviled eggs, freshly barbecued tri tip (Alan) and trout (Harry). For a treat, she added generous helpings of blackberry cobbler, Dutch apple pie, fudge praline brownies.

Then, she had plenty left for both the refrigerator and the freezer. Creamed corn casserole, eggplant lasagna, green beans almandine. Homemade crescent rolls, homemade cinnamon rolls, homemade ice cream.

Eventually, she had to send Harry and Sam over to all the neighbors with a few samples of everything. She and Alan had been cooking for two days; they'd made enough to feed a few dozen people. Don had even grilled corn on the cob, that morning; something he had learned to do at the Fourth of July fish fry.

When all the food was put away; after the skinny young girls had left; while Harry and Sam were out delivering... Doris wandered around until she found the laundry room. She stretched on her tiptoes until she could pluck the bottle of detergent off the shelf, filled the washer out of the dirty clothes basket, and folded everything she found in the dryer.

Then she glanced for the twentieth time at the clock hanging on the wall high over the kitchen sink – and decided to look for the vacuum. She had to do something to keep her mind off what had just happened.

**...**

Liz looked up anxiously when Colby entered the break room. "Don?" she asked simply.

He shook his head. "Nothing, yet. David and I stayed at the hospital for three hours before Alan insisted we leave. He knew the team was scheduled to work tonight, and he said we needed some food and rest first." He grimaced; remember the awkward hours in the emergency room waiting area. The room was only so big, after all; it had been difficult for David to maintain his physical distance from Colby. But it had been obvious - at least to Granger - that Sinclair wanted to. On several occasions, Colby had almost confronted his partner; but it was neither the time, nor the place. So the two men had been as polite - and as removed from one another - as strangers.

Liz picked up a cup of coffee in each hand. "David said it was pretty obvious that Don's arm was broken. I hope that's the worst of it."

Colby scowled. "That would be bad enough; it's his dominant hand - comes in handy when you're shooting at perps."

Liz looked worried. "I hope..." She interrupted herself, and smiled briefly in greeting as David entered the break room. "Hey, David. Have you heard from Charlie, or Alan?"

He shook his head and walked toward the cupboard to retrieve his coffee cup. "Not yet. Nikki's out there looking in serious need of caffeine, though."

Liz rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I'd better get this out to her. I think the idiot tried to eat everything Doris Sackett gave us to take home." She started walking, but paused at the door, tossing her head toward the refrigerator. "That reminds me - Doris sent some steak, and trout...cobbler...I almost couldn't get it all in the refrigerator. Help yourselves."

Both men nodded their understanding. "Thanks, Liz," said Colby. He was leaning against a counter, next to the refrigerator; now, he moved to open the door and glance inside. After considering all the options, he decided to try something a little later. He closed the door, turned around and regarded David Sinclair's back.

Finally, Colby spoke. "Listen..." David's shoulder's stiffened, but Colby continued. "When Robin ran out to get Alan, and Charlie was pulling blankets out of the downstairs closet...it was just you, me, and Don."

David shrugged. "So what?" he asked the coffee maker.

Colby took a few steps forward, until he stood directly behind David, and lowered his voice. "So you heard what he said, just like I did. And just like me, you spent three hours with his father, his brother, and his girlfriend. Also just like me, you didn't tell any of them what Don said."

David turned around, defensive. "It wasn't my place. Don was in extreme pain, possibly concussed, definitely confused. Hell, he thought we were all out in the field somewhere, and that he'd been shot! There was no point in upsetting his family any more than they already were. Don was probably wrong, anyway; and even if he wasn't, he asked us not to say anything to Charlie and Alan."

Colby nodded. "I'm not disagreeing with any of that - I didn't repeat the conversation, either."

A guarded expression came over David's face. "So what _are_ you saying?"

Colby crossed his arms over his chest, and widened his stance. "I'm saying that's what it was like for me, before. I didn't tell you what Wright and I were up to because I knew Don didn't want anyone - _ANY_one, not even his father - to know. I wasn't trying to disrespect you, man; I was trying to honor Don. I never thought that I...that I could be making a choice between my two best friends."

David's face closed, and he turned toward the coffee maker again. "That's the trouble with you," he muttered. "You never think."

**...**

Alan rose from the hard plastic chair and wandered to the edge of the carpeted waiting area. He placed one foot on the shiny linoleum and leaned slightly forward, craning his head to look first left, and then right. The pace of the emergency room was busy, bordering on panicked, but he did not see what he was looking for: he did not see anyone official headed in his direction. He sighed heavily, pivoted, and returned to the bank of chairs. He sank into one, settling between Charlie and Robin. "I just don't understand," There was a plaintive note of confusion in his voice as he looked at Charlie. "Tell me again."

"I told you," snapped Charlie irritably, rubbing at his head. "We were talking. Don grabbed my arm, and I jerked back. I didn't realize how close we were to the stairs, and I didn't expect him to lose his balance!" By the end of his speech, he was sounding slightly defensive. Amita, sitting on the other side of Charlie, placed a restraining hand on his leg.

Alan just continued to look confused. "But...why would Donny grab you if you two were just talking?"

Charlie's expression became clouded with guilt. "We were arguing," he finally admitted quietly, looking down at his own shoes.

Alan's face reflected his surprise. They _had_ argued a few days ago, but he had thought that they had mended things. He echoed Charlie almost stupidly. "Arguing?"

Charlie dropped his hand from his head, and grasped Amita's. Despite their own earlier altercation, he needed to feel her now, steadfast and comforting. He was terrified over Don; worse, Charlie knew that whatever was wrong with his brother, it was his fault. He kept his attention on his shoes. "I had a headache," he said. "I was going to lie down for awhile in my room."

Alan remained flummoxed. "Why would that make Don angry enough to argue with you?"

Charlie didn't answer. It was apparent that he was growing more and more uncomfortable, and Robin tried to divert Alan's attention. "Maybe he thought Charlie was being rude to your guests."

Amita ventured a suggestion. "Do you want to step outside and call them? Check in?" She glanced at her watch. "We've been here almost six hours."

Alan looked stunned. "That long?"

Robin nodded. "Liz and Nikki stayed at the house, but they've probably had to leave by now." She pulled her own cell phone from the waistband of her slacks, and checked her messages. "David has called three times since he left; Colby, four."

Alan smiled briefly at the mention of their names. "I didn't think I'd be able to talk them into leaving at all," he said, "but I know the team has a stake-out, tonight. I remember Don telling me he could only have one beer; he was switching to lemonade no later than 3 p.m. ..." He gathered his legs under him and prepared to stand, again. "What's taking so long? Colby said Don regained consciousness before the ambulance even arrived!" He stood and loomed over Charlie. "That's right, isn't it, son?"

Charlie was saved from answering by the arrival of a doctor. "Family of Don Eppes?"

Alan whirled so quickly that he almost lost his balance. "Yes, yes! Please, what's happening?"

The physician offered a harried nod. "I apologize. X-ray was backed-up, and we had to wait for an MRI."

Charlie was standing next to his father, now. "Is my brother all right? His arm...the way it was...it's broken, isn't it?"

The doctor's gaze flickered to Robin and Amita, who were now joining the men.

Alan quickly processed the glance. "You can speak in front of these ladies; they're my sons' fiancées."

The doctor glanced at a clipboard in his hand. "Actually, Mr. Eppes signed a waiver to that effect." He glanced up, again. "You are Robin and Amita?"

Amita nodded and Robin offered her hand. "Robin Brooks," she said, introducing herself. "And you are?"

The busy attending had the good grace to look chagrined as he briefly pumped Robin's hand with his own. "Forgive me. I'm Dr. Anderson, the attending trauma physician on duty."

Alan took over as patriarch. "I'm Don's father, Alan. This is his brother, Charlie, and Charlie's fiancée, Dr. Amita Ramanujan."

Dr. Anderson raised an eyebrow slightly. "MD?" he asked, looking at Amita.

"PhD," she answered. "Astronomy."

Charlie interrupted, impatiently. "And another in mathematics. What about my brother?"

The hospital physician resumed his presentation. "You're correct about the arm. Don has an unstable distal radial fracture. An orthopedic specialist is with him now. Don requested a specific doctor, and the doctor has privileges here, so we were able to call him. I believe he's planning an ORIF – open reduction internal fixation – but he'll be out to discuss that with you soon. I'm here to discuss Don's paralysis."

**...**

End, Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10: Shadows

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 10: Shadows **

**…**

Charlie awoke with a start, surrounded by an almost palpable cloud of anxiety. His head was killing him, his eye throbbed, and he was unbearably warm. Before he was fully awake, he was struggling to rid himself of coverings: sheets, clothing, skin - he wanted all of it off, the sooner the better.

Amita's concerned face appeared in his line of sight, and her small hand pressed into his shoulder. She pleaded with him. "Charlie, be still."

He blinked at her. His dreams had never touched or talked to him, before. "Wha?" He tried to gain the purchase required to sit up.

She added a second hand. "You're in an ER exam bay; you fainted in the waiting area."

He frowned, and shook his head. "Men don't faint," he protested.

She smiled tightly. "You did a fine impression, then. We thought Alan was going down too, for a few seconds, but he managed to remain upright."

Charlie slumped back onto the hospital bed. He felt as if his head were full of cotton. He carefully lolled his head on the pillow, so that his good eye could search the parameters of the room. "Dad?"

Amita brushed a hand through the curls hanging over his forehead. "He and Robin are talking to Dr. Anderson," she said.

The name slammed into Charlie like a freight train, and he knew he wasn't in a dream. This was a nightmare.

"Oh, God," he moaned, closing his eyes. "Don is paralyzed!"

Before Amita could answer, a familiar male voice joined the conversation. "No, he's not," said Aaron Shulman, pushing past the curtain and into Charlie's exam cubicle. "Anderson is an idiot."

Charlie's eyes flew open and he frantically sought out the source of communication. "Dr. Shulman!" he gasped when he finally spied the man. Charlie struggled again to sit up. "Have you seen Donny?"

Shulman smiled and nodded. "I'm the specialist your brother requested. I'll be doing the ORIF as soon as there's an OR available." He glanced at Amita, and his smile deepened. "Your lovely fiancée, I presume?"

Amita lifted her hand from Charlie's shoulder, extending her engagement ring toward the doctor, intending to shake his hand. As soon as the pressure on his shoulder was gone, Charlie shot up like a rocket. "Tell me," he demanded. "I mean, yes, yes, this is Amita. Amita, Dr. Shulman. What's happening with Don?"

Shulman winked at Amita while he shook her hand. "A rather one-track mind, this one."

She found herself smiling in return; this doctor was so much more personable and reassuring than the ogre talking to Alan and Robin. She glanced possessively at Charlie. "Just the way I like 'em," she teased. She returned her attention to the doctor. "Please, what can you tell us?"

Shulman looked at Charlie and paused to consider his response. "Okay," he finally said. "Technically, he's paralyzed." He rushed to complete his explanation before Charlie passed out again. "But it's temporary. When Don fell down the stairs, he suffered some deep bruising in the tissue surrounding the spinal cord, at the T-10 level. There was immediate, extensive swelling that resulted in a loss of sensation and muscle control below the waist." Charlie was starting to pale, and Shulman almost tripped over his own words. "The good news," he said hurriedly, "is that an MRI has confirmed that there is no spinal cord damage; even better, Don can already feel pinpricks to the soles of his feet. He's receiving corticosteroid injections - methylprednisone - for the next 24 hours, and there has already been improvement, after just one injection."

Charlie licked his lips. "Temporary?" he confirmed in a small voice.

"Absolutely," iterated the doctor. "As paralysis goes - even temporary paralysis - this is a best-case scenario. TP can last for days, weeks, even months...but Don is responding well to treatment. I think we're looking at 'days' here."

"It would have been nice if Dr. Anderson had made that part of the conversation before he scared us all to death and made Charlie faint!" fumed Amita.

Charlie reddened. "Didn't faint," he muttered. "I passed out."

Amita rolled her eyes and Shulman laughed. "I'll go along with that," the doctor said.

"What about the arm?" asked Charlie. He added, almost shyly, '"I'm glad Don thought to ask for you. I should have done it myself."

Shulman's good humor was back. "Well, we're just _assuming_ he wanted me. I think he said, 'Get Shulman' - he might have been expecting a rabbi to walk in - but he's stuck with me."

Amita smiled, but Charlie's expression remained apprehensive and fearful, so Shulman launched into another round of medspeak. He cleared his throat. "Anyway. Don has a closed fracture, an unstable distal radial fracture, right arm. I'm going to do an open reduction internal fixation, using Volar fixed-angle locking plates. The Volar is an excellent product. With early active wrist rehab, I anticipate a good to excellent outcome. Of course we want optimal healing in his dominant arm. All told, I think your brother could walk out of here in a week."

Charlie finally looked a little relieved, and Amita leaned to kiss him quickly on the cheek. "Charlie, that's such good news!"

Charlie turned his face toward hers and planted a hard, relieved kiss on her lips, before Amita stepped back, coloring, with a glance at Shulman.

When he broke away from the kiss, Charlie made as if to climb off the table. "We should find Dad, and Robin. Anderson probably left them convinced Don needs an amputation."

Amita had been looking, with a little apologetic embarrassment, at Dr. Shulman. Now she saw the slight shake of his head. "You stay and rest a few more minutes," she said to Charlie. "I'll go find them."

"But I'm fine," he started, beginning to scoot off the edge of the gurney.

Dr. Shulman took a step closer to Charlie and interrupted. "Perhaps you should wait here, Charlie," he advised. "I'm sure Anderson or one of his interns will be by to give you the 'all clear' any minute."

Successfully kept on the gurney by Shulman's bulk, Charlie frowned up at him, hardly noticing when Amita slipped past the curtain and out of the exam cubicle. "I'd like to go see my brother," he announced loudly. He had always liked Aaron Shulman, but now, Charlie used the tone of voice he reserved for unruly freshmen.

To his complete surprise, Dr. Shulman emitted a tiny sigh, turned - and sat next to Charlie on the edge of the gurney. The doctor crossed his arms in front of his chest and stared down at the shiny linoleum. "Don's main concern right now is _you_," he informed Charlie, surprising the professor into complete silence. "He didn't want to hear a lot of medical mumbo jumbo about his arm, or even his back...I don't think he necessarily wanted me here as an orthopedist - although he seems relieved that I'll be taking on his case."

Charlie had finally found his voice - and was a little surprised himself to hear its defensive tone. "What are you talking about? Of course he wanted you, he asked for you!"

Aaron Shulman lifted his gaze from the floor and turned his head to regard Charlie solemnly. "The first thing Don did was tell me about the pills," he informed Charlie. Charlie's mouth dropped open, and the doctor continued. "He said that you lied to your ophthalmologist, in order to get more tramadol. He said that he's seen signs of potential dependency, but has ignored them. Don said that you need more and more tramadol, something you're hiding less and less." He sat beside Charlie in silence for a few seconds, giving the professor a chance to respond; but Charlie remained quiet, his own gaze now directed at the floor. Finally, in a gentle tone of voice that completely belied the severity of the question, Dr. Shulman asked, "Charlie... do you have a problem?"

**...**

Amita felt Alan and Robin looking at her, but she only had eyes for Don.

Dr. Anderson had left, assuring them that Don would be taken to surgery as soon as an operating room was available. Amita had spent a few minutes sharing what Dr. Shulman had said, then finished her presentation by indicating that Charlie seemed fine now, and would be along any minute.

Don, his face tight with pain, had looked away briefly before he decided to do a little sharing of his own.

So far, no one had spoken in response to his revelations. Alan had made a noise of distress; Robin's face didn't register much surprise; and Amita felt her mouth gape open. It took her several seconds to find her voice - and when she did, it squeaked like a rusty hinge. "You're wrong," she said, feeling heat rise in her face. "You're in pain, and confused - and you've been a cop too long. You're naturally suspicious."

Don did his best to look sympathetic, despite his own physical and emotional distress. "He's been _lying_," he repeated. "Why would Charlie lie to get his hands on more tramadol, if there's not a problem? Chuck doesn't lie." He suppressed a moan and sank further into the pillow.

Alan didn't even seem to notice the moan; an indication of his own state of mind. "He hasn't been himself lately," he said to Amita. "You have to admit that's true."

Amita shot a glare in his direction and Alan seemed to withdraw into himself, like a turtle into a shell. Robin held one of Don's hands in both of her own and cleared her throat. "My office has seen some trafficking in tramadol recently; it's gaining street cred. Apparently, it's more addictive than the experts thought. Many physicians still don't realize the potential for abuse - an AUSA in my office had a difficult time prosecuting a case involving tramadol a few months ago. The defense brought in a dozen doctors to testify about tramadol's safety."

Amita's expression became triumphant. "There! You see? I... I don't know why Charlie lied. He probably needs some professional help to deal with his permanent loss of vision…"

Robin interrupted, gently. "My colleague won the case," she said. "After hearing other testimony, six of the doctors told the judge they were recanting."

Amita's eyes glistened with tears. "He's a _scientist_," she protested. "Charlie's too smart for something like this to happen!"

Alan ventured out of his shell, looking at Amita with a mixture of sternness and sorrow. "Charlie is human," he pointed out. "He's a human in pain - physical, emotional... Pain makes us do things we aren't ordinarily capable of. Like lying."

Amita shook her dark head vehemently and interrupted. She was looking in Don's and Robin's direction, but not making eye contact with either of them. "_You're all wrong_," she insisted again, her voice low, but nonetheless fiercely protective. "Don, I'm sure your surgery will go well. Charlie will want to see you before you go up, so I'm going to go get him now." Once more she flashed a warning glare at Alan. "I swear on the heads of my unborn children, if any one of you says anything about this to him, I will never speak to you again."

**...**

"You're wrong," said Charlie, hopping off the gurney and edging towards the cubicle's curtain. He ran a nervous hand through the disarray of dark curls on his head, and let the opposite arm swing a wide trail around himself; he had learned the hard way that this could prevent bumping into unseen obstacles.

Aaron Shulman stood. "Charlie," he began, but Charlie talked on as if the doctor had never spoken.

"I'll stop. I can stop. I don't have a problem with tramadol, or any other drug. I'll never take another one again."

"That's not a good idea," cautioned the physician. "Tramadol withdrawal can occur with legitimate use of the drug, as well as with abuse. We'll need to wean you..."

Charlie interrupted again, one hand now clutching the curtain. "No," he said, shaking his dark head emphatically. "No, no. I haven't been taking it that long. I'm sorry I lied; I was weak, frightened... I hardly knew what I was doing myself until it was over." He pulled the curtain back and pivoted. He spied Amita hurrying his way and suddenly couldn't wait to feel her comforting arms around him. He bolted from the cubicle, tossing one last denial over his shoulder.

"_You're all wrong_."

**...**

End, Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11: Sinking

_**A/N: This is for you, Graham...**_

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 11: Sinking**

**…**

Audrey Paris took a drag on her joint, and drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.

In the past, a joint would have made her mellow, too mellow to think straight, but these days, it was a necessity. The high and the feeling of power she got from meth had turned into a constant craving; she couldn't function without it, but after days on end of hit after hit, meth-induced anxiety sometimes took over. When that happened, her mind would go into a tailspin, disjointed thoughts darting around in her skull like frightened rats, and she would need something to calm her down enough so that she could think again. Vodka worked, but too well, and she often didn't stop before she was drunk. Pot was better; it quelled the jitters but left her clear-headed enough to plan.

The Plan. It wasn't something that had come to her right away; instead it slowly materialized from the recesses of her mind and the cesspools of hate in her soul. It was a way to get the money that should rightfully have been hers and to have her revenge in the process. The only problem was, she needed help to carry it out, and there was only one man who could help her. Asking him was huge risk; if he put loyalty before his own chance at riches, he might rat her out, and she had no doubt that if that happened, she would be a dead woman. On the other hand, if he determined that being rich was worth the risk on his part, he might decide to play, and they both would win.

She took another hit of the joint, held it for a moment, then exhaled and stared at the prepaid cell phone lying on the table. Yes, there was only one man who could help her, if she dared to pick up the phone and call him. He was the brains of J. Everett Tuttle's enterprises, and his name was Ralph Nardek.

**…**

Charlie blinked, and rubbed his throbbing forehead. The figures on his computer screen stood out harshly against the background, and seemed to vibrate, making it difficult to focus. He swallowed, trying to quell the ever-present anxiety, not to mention nausea, which had been part of his existence, ever since the day of the barbecue – the day that Don fell, the day he stopped taking his medication.

He heard the front door open and close, and Alan stump in. Don had been released from the hospital after four days to recuperate at home; he'd regained full feeling and function in his legs after only two, much to Charlie's profound relief. He'd hovered anxiously over his brother, as had Alan, during Don's days in the hospital. Alan had been a constant fixture at Don's side, even through the evenings, and Charlie had been there through much of it also, only leaving long enough each day to manage his classes. Unlike Alan, however, Charlie never allowed himself to be in the room alone with Don. He'd made that mistake once, and only once, the day after Don's fall. In spite of being a bit fuzzy-headed from pain medication himself following the surgery on his arm, Don had been sharp enough to take advantage of their relative privacy and had brought up the topic of the pills. Charlie's response had been curt, defensive and immediate. "They're not an issue," he had said. "I'm not taking them anymore."

"I can see that," Don had replied dryly. "Or is sweaty and green a new look for you?" His face had grown somber then, and he continued, "Charlie, you don't have to do it cold turkey – in fact you shouldn't. Shulman's upset with you – he says you're gonna be sicker than hell. I know what you're doing – you're beating yourself up over what happened, and you shouldn't. It was an accident. If anything, it was my fault, for grabbing your arm like that. I shouldn't have been so pushy."

Now, a week later, Charlie grimaced, and rubbed his head again. That was just like Don – he could be demanding, and sometimes argumentative, but it when it came to something really serious, he was understanding – almost too understanding. He'd nearly been paralyzed, for God's sake, and Charlie couldn't shake the conviction that despite what Don had said, it was his fault. If he hadn't been on the pills, hadn't lied to get that extra prescription, their argument at the top of the stairs wouldn't have happened.

Don and Shulman were both right about one thing – he'd gotten sicker than a dog. For the first four days, he groped his way through blinding headaches, and disappeared to the nearest bathroom after every meal, where he vomited repeatedly, violently. He subsisted on crackers, eaten just a few at a time. The third evening, after a bout of vomiting, he'd actually passed out on the bathroom floor, while Amita was at the grocery store and Alan at the hospital – although he'd come to before either of them returned. At least it hadn't happened at school…

Through it all, he tried to act normally. Normal function – it meant that he really hadn't been addicted – he was just experiencing some minor withdrawal symptoms, he had told Shulman, when he ran into him outside the doorway of Don's room. Shulman had looked back at him with an expression that said he wasn't fooled, and just shook his head.

Not addicted, not really. That was Amita's mantra, too – she snapped at any mention of Charlie's condition by Alan. "He's fine," she would retort. "It's understandable that he would have a headache. He's fine." Her reaction only added to Charlie's guilt – that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his gut that had nothing to do with nausea. Her denial only underscored how Charlie suspected she really felt about addiction – it was obviously something highly disturbing to her; despicable, weak behavior. Something so distasteful that she couldn't acknowledge it, especially not when it came to her fiancé.

Her reaction, his own denial, and a deep sense of guilt had somehow given him a grim, desperate sort of determination that brought him through the week. When he thought about it, there was even something gratifying in the pain – he deserved it. He gritted his teeth grimly, almost welcoming it, welcoming the wretched sickness, immersing himself in a type of self-flagellation. Now at the end of the week, although he was still far from weaned, the headaches were becoming slightly more bearable, the nausea receding enough that he could keep down a light meal.

He kept his head down, his eyes on his computer, as Alan stumped through on the way to the kitchen. His father hadn't been home much; he'd been staying at Don's apartment with him since he'd been released from the hospital. He could hear Alan's voice mingling with Amita's in the kitchen, as he joined her in the preparation of a simple dinner of soup and sandwiches. His father apparently had stopped over while Don napped to pick up a few cooking supplies, spices and condiments that Don didn't keep in his apartment.

Dinner, with Alan there, was just a trifle uncomfortable. Charlie kept his eyes on his plate, and when he joined the conversation, spoke quietly, almost apologetically. He couldn't shake the sense that when his father looked at him now, his gaze held disapproval. He had after all, nearly paralyzed Alan's oldest son, his own brother.

His father's eyes were on him now, keen, assessing. "So, how are you feeling, Charlie?"

"Good," Charlie mumbled. He picked up his soup spoon with a shaking hand, and laid it back down again, playing with a bit of his sandwich. "I'm trying to finish grading some tests, and then I was going to ask Amita to drive me over to see Don."

He glanced up as Alan grunted and spooned up a bit of soup. His father looked exhausted, and definitely out of sorts. Don's injury, coming so soon after their disappearance, had apparently brought Alan to his limit. The realization made Charlie feel even more guilty. His father's next words didn't help.

"It's the least you could do, considering."

Amita put down her spoon, and stared at Alan, bristling. "Considering what?"

Alan looked at her sourly. "Do I need to spell it out?"

Amita stared at him, then at Charlie, then back at Alan, her mouth open. "Are you saying what happened was Charlie's fault?"

Charlie sat silently, miserably, his gut twisting into a knot.

Alan shot Charlie a look, and in it was flash of regret, and sympathy. His face softened. "Not directly," he hedged, and rose, gathering his dishes. "I'm sorry. I need to get back."

Amita wouldn't let it go. "Not directly – and what does that mean?" she snapped, her eyes flashing.

Alan sighed and gestured wearily with his free hand. "Just this whole – tramadol thing."

Amita looked furious, and Charlie tried to interject, quietly. "Amita."

"Don't 'Amita' me," she shot back, and then glared at Alan. "He was perfectly justified in taking a few pain pills," she said sharply, gesturing toward Charlie. "Don blew the whole thing out of proportion – he was the one who started the argument, and wouldn't let Charlie walk away from it. You, too – both of you – you're making that entire pill issue into way more than it needs to be. You make Charlie sound like some kind of pathetic addict."

Charlie winced. He felt a strange sensation inside; as if he were sinking into a hole.

Alan rarely argued with Amita – in fact, they usually got along so well, there had never been much cause, and even in those small discussions, he would always defer to her, ever the gentleman. Now, though, he paused, and looked at Charlie pointedly, then back at her. "Really? Not an issue? Have you really looked at him this week? He's dropped at least five pounds, he's pale, his skin always looks clammy, and his hands shake. I think Don was perfectly justified in calling him on it." He nodded, with exaggerated politeness, and stepped away.

Charlie wasn't sure what made him feel worse – his father practically calling him addict, speaking _about_ him instead of _to_ him, like a child – or Amita's silent stare, and the look of doubt in her eyes.

**…..**

Mark Vincent sat staring at the computer screen, oblivious to the cursor jumping across it. He was straining his ears, craning to hear as Audrey spoke into a prepaid cell phone just outside the door to the library, his room.

"Listen to me," she said tersely. "Think about it. What does Tuttle offer you that makes him deserve loyalty? Think about how much you know. How long will it be before he thinks of you as a liability? You know he's gotten rid of his own people before – he has no loyalty, himself. For all you know, he could be plotting to get rid of you now. You could make a pre-emptive strike. We could be rich – far richer than you could ever hope to be from working for him, and you would never have to look over your shoulder again."

There was a pause, and when she spoke again, her voice had lost the undertone of urgency, and Mark could hear a purr in it. He could almost see the self-satisfied look on her face. "Very well. This is it. There are still two accounts that were set up under my brother's name in banks in the Caymans that the feds didn't find. I had just requested them prior to their takedown of Illusion, Corp., and it takes three weeks to activate the accounts, so when the feds went looking for Mark's listings, they didn't exist yet. They were put in place after the feds finished their search. They're still there, and the feds don't know about them – they think they found them all, and the information has already been compiled for the case against my hus- Jim – so they won't go looking for them now. You need to siphon off money from Tuttle's holdings into those two accounts – equal amounts. I have power of attorney, and will transfer money from them afterward to new separate accounts in our names instead of my brother's - one will become yours, the other mine."

Another pause, listening, and then she spoke again, sharply. "Tuttle's not going to find out, because he'll be in prison – for murder. We'll beat him at his own game. You will have one of Tuttle's men contract out some hit men, and you will have him tell the men that Tuttle wants them to take out Don and Charlie Eppes. After they do and the Eppes brothers are dead, one of us will send an anonymous tip to the feds, directing them to the hit men. When the feds pick them up, the hit men will implicate Tuttle. He'll go to prison for murder, and we'll walk away with his money. And we get rid of the Eppes brothers in the bargain."

She paused again. "I realize I've taken a risk in telling you this. I realize you could go to Tuttle. I feel confident, however, that you can see the value in my proposition, and oh, just one more thing. I've hired a man of my own. If anything happens to me, Tuttle won't be the only reason you're looking over your shoulder."

There was another pause, and her voice came, silky, syrupy with satisfaction. "Good, then we have an agreement."

There was the light click of a heel, and with a shock, Mark realized that the conversation was over and she was heading toward the door to the room. His mind scrabbling frantically for control, he managed to grab the cursor and shut down the web page he was surfing, bringing up a blank screen with an electronic pen function, with which he'd made some random squiggles. It looked like senseless scratching, which was just what he intended. There was no doubt in his mind now. He couldn't let Audrey know that he could think and interact with the outside world, or he would end up as dead as Don and Charlie Eppes.

Audrey clicked into the room with a smug smile, and made directly for the computer, pausing to smirk at the blank screen with its haphazard marks. "Very good, Markie," she cooed condescendingly. "Pretty soon you'll be up to Tic Tac Toe."

Mark watched over her shoulder as she brought up the file named "Recipes," and as she settled in to view the file contents, he stared at the back of her head. He thought back to their days in high school, of her in her cheerleading outfit, a bright, wholesome girl with a sunny smile. He wondered what had happened to that girl, what had changed her along the way to someone he no longer knew – someone who was sinking into darkness, who swore, who abused drugs and alcohol, who stole. Someone who was about to commit murder.

**…..**

End, Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12: Mistaken Identiy

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 12: Mistaken Identity**

**…**

Steve 'Spike' Johnson pulled into the furniture outlet parking lot, and eyed the vehicle across the expanse of asphalt. It was night, and there were a few cars in the lot belonging to some evening shoppers, but he easily picked out the vehicle he was looking for, with its two inhabitants. After getting his instructions from Ralph Nardek, he had contacted a reliable utility man, Paully Mannorelli, to do the hit on the Eppes brothers. Mannorelli had asked to do the job with an associate, a man Spike knew only as 'Dominic.' Spike hadn't asked Paully for any other details about the man – sometimes, in this business, the less a guy knew, the better. He and Paully went way back, though, and Spike trusted his judgment.

He sat a moment, reflecting over Nardek's instructions, and felt again the puff of pride he'd gotten from his new importance in Tuttle's organization. Most of Tuttle's men, including Derek Mace, Tuttle's former right hand man, had been taken down in the Jim Montague debacle, and were now in prison. Spike had essentially moved up to take Mace's place, even though he had only been working odd jobs for Tuttle for the past three years. He was well aware that he never would have moved up this quickly, maybe never even have made Tuttle's inner circle, if nearly all of the existing inner circle hadn't gone to jail. Well, almost all. Ralph Nardek, the information systems geek, and Tuttle's accountant, had escaped prison and had also risen in importance, and it was Ralph who had given Spike this latest assignment. Spike wasn't crazy about receiving instructions from Nardek, but he told himself that they came from Tuttle – that was all that mattered. He went over the instructions in his head once more, and then with a quick look around the lot to make sure that it was currently empty of shoppers, got out of his car and made his way toward the other vehicle.

When he reached the car, he opened the front passenger door and slid into the seat, with a silent nod at Paully. Dominic, in the back seat, remained silent, and Spike directed his words toward Paully. "I got some info for you."

Paully had a square head and a full face, and in the darkness his profile resembled a bulldog. He waited, and Spike said, "The contract is to take out Don and Charlie Eppes. They're brothers. Don's a fed, head of the local office here, and his brother is a professor at Cal Sci. You should do Don first, get him out of the way – with him gone, the feds will be scrambling to reorganize, won't be as efficient. While they're busy tryin' to figure out what happened to him, you can hit the brother."

"What's Tuttle got against them?" Paully's gravelly voice came from the bulldog head.

Spike frowned. "Who said it was Tuttle askin'?"

Paully snorted. "Word gets around – you're one of his main guys now. Relax, it ain't widely known. I just got some good sources, that's all."

"Yeah, well." Spike paused for a moment. "So anyway, we got a little more info on them." He pulled a folded paper out of his jacket, with a gloved hand. "Don Eppes works downtown at FBI headquarters, and the name of his synagogue is on that sheet, and so is the address of his apartment. There's also the address of his girlfriend, Robin Brooks. Those places, and his brother's house, are the places he'll be most likely to visit. Stay away from the brother's house – unless you think you can get a chance to take 'em both out together and get it all done at once. I wouldn't go near the brother's house until after you have Don Eppes – then make a visit and take out the professor. If I were you, I'd scope out the other spots that the fed goes, see if there's good place to take him – a parking lot at night, whatever." He handed Paully an envelope. "Their pictures are in there. Don's about five foot ten or so, medium build, dark kinda wavy hair. His brother'll be hard to miss – he's a little guy, about five seven, but he's got a head of dark curly hair, wears it kinda long." He paused. "Your advance money is in the envelope with the pictures. You do the job, and I'll contact you about the rest of it."

Paully nodded. "Okay."

Spike gave him a nod, and threw another toward the silent Dominic in the back seat, as he opened the car door. "Call me on the number I gave you yesterday, when you're done."

**….**

Don awkwardly pulled on his belt buckle with his left hand, his tongue between his teeth as he managed to get it fastened. It had been two weeks since his release from the hospital, and he'd been cleared to drive. It was a Friday, and his father, thank God, had finally gone back to work on Wednesday. He loved his father and Don knew he meant well, but after a few days, his fussing had grown stifling – especially during the day. Nighttime would bring other visitors – his team members, Robin, Charlie and Amita – and Alan would often take that time to head out to clean up the kitchen, or cook, or sometimes leave altogether. During the day, however, his constant ministrations had Don smiling through gritted teeth.

He was in a good mood – not only was he alone, back to blessed solitude – but he was allowed to drive again, to leave the apartment on his own. Granted, most of the wheel manipulation would be left-handed, but he could get around – and the first thing he planned to do was to go visit Charlie. He knew for a fact that his brother didn't have classes on Friday afternoon this semester; Charlie had come back to a lightened schedule after his ordeal. Don also knew that since Charlie wasn't driving yet himself that he would probably be at the Craftsman – alone, because Amita would still be on campus. It would be a perfect time to talk, and the past two weeks had made painfully clear that a talk between the two of them was very much needed. Although Charlie had come to visit, he was always with Amita, plus Alan was usually there. Charlie, without fail, would murmur a quiet greeting then retreat to a corner, where he sat and listened silently to the conversation. Don could tell he was hurting, however; and he knew it was more than just the symptoms of withdrawal from pain pills. There was something disturbing in his younger brother's eyes, a look of guilt and of desperation, and something else. Charlie seemed not quite all there; and something about him reminded Don of his brothers' previous retreats from the world, when he was stressed beyond his limits. Maybe he wrong; he hoped he was, but he could almost feel his brother drifting away again – if not from the world, then at least from him – and Don intended to nip that in bud. He grabbed his wallet and stuck it in his pocket, just as a knock sounded at the door.

Don was most definitely not expecting company, and his brow furrowed as he crossed his living room with a glance at the clock. It was near lunchtime; maybe it was an unannounced visit from Robin. The half smile on his lips froze as he opened the door, and his jaw dropped in surprise.

**…..**

Sam Jarrett, his sister Doris, and her husband Harry Sackett sat hunched over burgers at a fast food joint on the outskirts of Loma Linda. After the disastrous barbecue, they'd decided the Eppes family needed time to regroup, and on a whim they had taken off for Arizona, to tour the Red Desert and the Grand Canyon area. The following week they'd circled back to see Las Vegas, and as much as they had wanted to visit with the Eppes family, Doris and Harry had reached the limit of the time they had allotted for the trip – and then some.

"We really need to be gettin' back," said Harry, with a sigh.

Sam lifted a shoulder. "Summer campers are all gone – what's the rush?"

"We ain't been there for nearly a month," said Harry. "Even with the guys we had watchin' over our places, there's a lot of work to do get the place ready for the hunters – they'll start showin' up in a couple of weeks. We need a ton of firewood, and I need to get the cabins ready at my place, and make sure the hookups are all in order for the trailers."

Doris regarded her burger sadly. "Maybe we can come back sometime. We didn't really stay all that long in Los Angeles – maybe we can take a shorter trip and just come back to visit the Eppes family, and see the city." Her wistful smile, turned just a trifle knowing as she glanced at Harry. "It _was_ a nice honeymoon."

Harry beamed at her. "Yes my little dove, it was."

Doris blushed and her smile broadened, and then she looked back at her brother. "I think, Sam, that we should let Alan know we're leaving soon. We should give them all the opportunity to say good-bye. We'll stay one more night, and then we'll hit the road tomorrow. After lunch, let's head over to that little hotel in Pasadena and see if we can get a room, and then we'll stop at Charlie's house."

**…**

Mark Vincent gazed up into his sister's eyes.

She had come into the room and bent over him, her eyes glittering with meth and an air of concealed excitement. "I'm going out for a few hours, Markie. I need some new clothes. After all, if I'm going to be rich, I need to look the part." God, how he hated that nickname. She smirked, straightened, and patted him on the head, condescendingly. "Be a good boy. I'll be back later."

A sense of relief flooded him as she turned and strode out the door – relief and a sense of anxious excitement. With Audrey gone, he could get on the computer again.

He'd been trying for three days to figure out how to get a message to Don Eppes – ever since he'd heard Audrey talking on the telephone, plotting a hit on them. Although the researchers had shown him how to access the internet and he'd mastered simple searches, his computing skills were minimal. Audrey had been spending a lot of time on it herself lately, which limited his access. When he added in nurses' visits, and checks by the researchers themselves, he ended up with relatively little time to figure out how to contact him. He still hadn't figured it out – apparently there was no way to contact an FBI agent directly, without going through a central site, which Mark did not want to do – the last thing he needed was someone from the FBI sending emails to the house – emails that his sister could intercept. He needed to – what did they call it? – chat. He needed to chat online with one of the Eppes brothers, in real time – and he needed to do it today. He had heard his sister on the phone again, just one hour before she left, and although he couldn't be certain, it sounded like the hit was going down today. He was out of time.

This afternoon, instead of trying Don again, he planned to turn his attention to Charlie. Earlier that morning while his sister was in the shower, he had done a search and had found the website at Cal Sci, where the professor taught. Each of the faculty members had a website, and he pulled it up now, and searched the page. There – there was a link for office hours. He clicked it, it opened, and he examined the listed hours with a sinking heart. It was after noon on Friday, and according to the posted hours, the professor was out of his office for the day. Mark felt his heart ratchet up a notch from frustration and anxiety. He had preferred to contact one of the Eppes men directly, but if he couldn't find a way to do that, he was going to need to try to get a message to the police. The normal communication tool in an emergency was a telephone, but that wasn't an option for him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and had he possessed the muscle control, the despair would have shown in his face. Somehow, he felt that only the Eppes men would take him seriously – he had planned to send them information from Audrey's files, certain that they would understand the significance of what they were seeing. Now he would need to send them to some unknown police – what? Officer? Clerk? Who would even receive his email? And when they got it, since they hadn't been involved in the case, they wouldn't understand…

He opened his eyes again, and they fell on an object next to the computer. Audrey's cell phone – not the one she used for everyday calls, but the red one – the one she used to talk to the man she called Ralph. His heart rate accelerated slightly, with increasing excitement. Although he'd never used a cell phone himself, he'd seen enough television to know that records of calls were stored on them – that the police could use that phone to find who she'd been calling. It was additional proof, and it was sitting right there. He had to get someone to the house to pick it up, before she got back.

He looked back at the computer screen, preparing to exit the professor's web page, when a link at the bottom caught his eye. "Questions?" it read. "Email me – I will answer as soon as possible." Mark hesitated. It was a Friday afternoon, and the professor was likely gone for the weekend – and he needed someone here within the next two or three hours. He thought for a moment, then opened the link. He would send the message anyway. If the professor didn't email him back within a half hour, he would try the police.

**…..**

"I'm sorry," said Aaron Shulman. "Am I interrupting something?"

Don stared at him; he couldn't imagine why Shulman was here. It couldn't be to see him – Don had just been in to see him for a check up and his release to drive, two days ago. He managed to collect himself. "No, come in."

He stepped back from the door, ushering him in, eyeing the doctor's fledgling beard. He rubbed his own cleanly shaved chin with a nod at the doctor, and grinned. "Looks good, doc."

"What?" Aaron stared at him blankly for a moment, then flushed and rubbed his jaw. "Oh, this. Yes, I supposed it just looked like stubble a couple of days ago. You probably thought I'd just forgotten to shave." He smiled; even white teeth against the darkness of his beard. He held out a folder. "I dropped by to give you this. It's reading material from my dad."

Don took the folder, propped it open against his cast, and scanned the contents, a set of articles on the Jewish faith. Aaron continued, watching him. "Actually, I told my dad you had broken your arm – not the circumstance around it, of course – but I let him know you were going to be laid up. He gave these articles to me for you– I meant to give them to you in the office the other day, and forgot. I'm going to Mincha today – every once in a while I attend an afternoon service, and take my father out to dinner afterward, then get him back in time for Ma'ariv." He flushed again and grinned sheepishly. "I know he's going to ask me if I gave you the articles, and I wanted to be able to tell him 'yes' – I'm afraid my visit was prompted by an ulterior motive."

Don looked up and grinned back, as he closed the folder. "That's okay. Be sure to tell your father I said thanks, and I'll be by to see him soon."

Aaron gestured toward Don's cast. "No sling, I see. You were wearing one when you came to see me the other day. Mobility looks good."

Dan glanced at his arm. "Yeah, it gets a little sore; aches sometimes when I move it around too much. I took the sling off because I'm gonna go for a drive." He grinned. "First one since the accident. I'm heading over to Charlie's."

"Mmm. How's he doing?"

Don glanced at him, looked away, then back again. "I don't know," he admitted quietly. "He's been over a couple of times, but he can't drive himself yet, so someone is always with him, and we really haven't gotten a chance to talk much. He doesn't look good."

Shulman pursed his lips, and sighed. "You know the first week is the worst for nausea, but reportedly the toughest weeks are the next two or three – the neurological and psychological effects start to kick in. Patients often report pinprick sensations in their limbs, headaches, and nearly unbearable anxiety, among other things. It's understandable that he doesn't look good."

Don was silent; in response, he just lifted a shoulder. Shulman studied him. "What?"

"I don't know." Don drifted toward the window. "Charlie's got some – history."

Shulman's eyes narrowed. "History?"

Don shrugged and shook his head. "He hasn't done it for a long time, but there were a couple of times – well, he got kind of squirrelly. Retreated to the garage, started working on this unsolvable math problem, day and night. Would barely eat or sleep for weeks on end. Granted, it happened during some pretty stressful times - when our mom died, and early on, when we were working together and I was shot. The shot just winged me – I don't know why that set him off but, well…"

"And you think he's going to do that again."

"I don't know. Maybe not. It's just – the last couple of times he's been over here, he had this look in his eye – it reminded me of those times." Don caught the look of concern on Shulman's face, and added hastily, "I could be way off base here – I mean, I'm sure he's not feeling well from being off the pills."

Shulman frowned. "Well, if it's stress that sets him off, there's been no shortage of that in his life. The withdrawal symptoms won't help any – his feelings of anxiety will be magnified." His frown deepened. "I should have pushed him harder to ease off the pills gradually."

Don cleared his throat. "Well, look, I'm heading over to see him now. He should be at home, alone – I figured we'd get a good chance to talk. I'll let you know how he's doing."

Shulman nodded. "That would be good. I'll head out; let you get out of here." He opened the door, paused. "Hang in there – both of you."

"Thanks," said Don. Shulman smiled again, nodded, and was gone.

**…**

Paully and Dominic sat and watched the parking lot outside Don's apartment, and their heads came up as a figure emerged from the building. "There he is again," said Dominic.

Paully eyed the figure, then glanced down at the picture. "It could be him – it's hard to tell with the beard. But when he drove up, he wasn't in an SUV – the paper here says he drives a black SUV – I can see it parked over there in the lot. And Spike didn't say nothin' about a beard."

"Well, it ain't like anyone's been watchin' him, until now," Dominic pointed out. "How would they know if he's grown a beard? An' maybe his SUV is his work car – maybe the feds don't let the agents drive their work cars for personal use."

They watched in silence as their quarry headed for his blue sedan, got in, and started the car. "Now what?" asked Dominic.

Paully reached for the keys, with a shrug. "We follow him – if he goes to one of the other spots on this paper, we'll know it's him."

Eighteen minutes and several blocks later, they pulled their car to a stop in the parking lot of a synagogue, and watched as the man wended his way through the parked cars, along with other worshipers heading in for the early evening service. "That's gotta be him," said Paully. "Looks like him; he went to his apartment, now he's at the synagogue. Gotta be Don Eppes. This parking lot's kinda tucked away here – if there aren't many people around when he comes out, we'll take him here – if there are too many, we'll just follow him back home."

Dominic nodded, and they settled in to wait.

**….**

End, Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13: The Missing Link

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 13: The Missing Link**

**…**

Amita pulled up to the front of the Craftsman shortly after noon, and Charlie's hand shot for the door handle. He'd been immersed in analysis of the Tuttle case for the better part of the week, spending every available minute outside of classes looking for another angle, a way to link Tuttle to the scheme. All he could think about was making that link – driven by an unconscious conviction that by doing so he would make right everything that had happened over the past months.

"Charlie."

Amita's voice and the uncertainty in it stopped his hand, and he turned to look at her reluctantly. She regarded him for a moment, with worry on her face. "Are you all right?"

He stared at her, at a loss for words. He wasn't certain himself what to say to that question. He opted for the dodge. "Of course, I'm fine. Why?"

"It just – you're on the computer all the time, when you're not in class. You're up all night, you're not eating… you look so stressed."

Charlie turned away and reached for the door again. "I'm busy, that's all. I'm fine."

"Would you tell me if you weren't?"

He stopped again and looked back at her. "What?"

Her eyes searched his. "You've told me the pill thing wasn't a big deal, Charlie, and I believed you – I went to bat for you – actually argued with Alan, which I've never done before. But as I've watched you these last two weeks… are you _sure_ you're okay?"

Charlie scowled, and reached for the door handle again. "Of course I am. Look, I got the Spanish Inquisition from my dad; I don't need it again. For the last time, I'm fine." This time his hand actually made contact with the latch, and he was out the door before she could say another word.

He marched for the house still scowling, feeling just a bit hurt and angry that no one seemed to trust him anymore. Most of all, his father, and her mention of him was a reminder of that painful conversation at the dinner table. Those feelings, however, paled by comparison to the anxiety and sensation of dread that nearly overwhelmed him these days – feelings that could only be squelched by immersing himself in mathematical analysis. He hurried for the dining room table, feverishly unpacked his laptop, and opened his case files. Minutes later, he was oblivious to his surroundings, fingers furiously pounding the computer keys. The link had to be there, it had to be…

**…..**

Don took a deep breath, soaking in the late afternoon fall sunshine as he walked to the door of the Craftsman. Yes, it was good to be out of that damn apartment. He had decided to run some errands before he went to talk with Charlie, figuring that by the time he got there, it would be near dinnertime. Maybe he could stay; they could have a beer together. It felt great to be free, to be doing some positive and proactive. He would talk with Charlie, hash things out, and things would be right again. He reached the door, and knocked.

Waited. Knocked again. He frowned, and glanced around. Charlie's car was in the driveway, but of course it would be; his brother needed at least a month with his new contact lens and then some visual exercises and therapy designed to help with depth perception before the doctor would release him to retest for his driver's license. Alan and Amita had been taking turns driving the Prius to keep the battery viable, but today they were apparently in their own vehicles. He was sure that Charlie would be home on a Friday afternoon – where else would he be?

He paused, reflecting, then turned the doorknob. The door wasn't locked – that was a good sign. Charlie probably _was_ home – maybe in the kitchen, maybe upstairs… "Hell, he's probably in the garage," Don muttered as he pushed through the door. "Should have thought of that first -," he broke off as he spotted the object of his thoughts in the dining room, hunched over his computer, pecking away at his keyboard. "Charlie!" Then, as his brother continued to type, "Hey Chuck! Didn't you hear me knock?"

Charlie's head came up, he stared straight ahead for a second before he turned, and the look in his eyes nearly turned Don's stomach. They were dark and sharp, but empty, focused inward, glittering with an intensity that wasn't quite … right. Charlie blinked, and a bit of normalcy returned. He looked nonplussed, and a bit put out. "Oh. Don."

Don let a breath out, shut the door behind him, and ambled over to take a seat next to his brother. "I was released to drive today, thought I'd take a ride over. I figured you'd be here." His eyes narrowed as he tried to scan the contents of Charlie's laptop screen. "What are you working on?"

Charlie blinked again, and his head swiveled back to the screen. One click of a mouse and the page vanished, replaced by his school email inbox. "Nothing," he mumbled. He kept his gaze on the screen, and Don could see his fingers twitching. Whatever it had been, Charlie was itching to get back to it. He hadn't even seemed surprised to see Don walk in.

"Come on, Charlie, cut the crap," Don said flatly. "You've been looking like you've been in P-vs.-NP-land for the last week. What's eating you?"

"Nothing," retorted Charlie, and Don was relieved to see the flash of irritation in his eyes, even if it was directed at him. That, at least, was normal. Don's face softened.

"Look, Charlie," he said quietly, "I told you before, it wasn't your fault." Charlie's lips twisted in a grimace, and he shook his head and looked away. "I mean it," said Don. "I had no right to pry like that. I was pushing you -,"

Charlie interjected, drumming his fingers on the table impatiently. "It_ was_ my fault," he said flatly. "I pushed you, and you fell down the stairs. Even Dad agrees."

Don stared at him. "What?"

Charlie shrugged as if trying to show the topic was of no consequence, but Don could see the pain in his face. "He said so, at dinner the other night. It was the same as when you were stabbed – I don't think he ever forgave me for that - and he blamed me for this, too. He's made it pretty clear where I stand with him."

Don's jaw had dropped, and it took a second or two for him to find his voice. "Charlie, that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Dad doesn't blame you for anything."

Charlie snorted softly. "Oh, yes he does. And it doesn't matter, anyway, because I blame myself. Although I didn't mean for that to happen, it was still my fault. There isn't much that can change that, but if you go away and let me work here, maybe I'll find a way to make it up to you."

Don was about to protest again, to say he didn't have anything to make up for, but curiosity got the better of him. "Work on what?"

Charlie let out an exaggerated sigh, and glanced at him. Don's gut tightened again – the look was back – that intense, almost manic, glitter in his brother's eyes. Was it just the effects of coming off the pills, or did Charlie's brittle, anxious state mean something more serious?

"Look," Charlie said, "if you stay quiet, you can sit and watch if you want. I just can't waste anymore time, here." He clicked the mouse, the screen came back up, and immediately, Charlie's fingers found the keys. He began typing, feverishly. "I'm working the Tuttle case."

Don stared at him. "The Tuttle case – what Tuttle case? Charlie, there is no Tuttle case."

"Yes, there is," muttered Charlie, his fingers hitting the keys so hard his dark curls vibrated. "You know he was behind it all."

"I know that, Charlie, but the DA did an in-depth investigation. They searched for days – weeks – and couldn't find a connection."

Charlie had stopped to scan some lines of feedback from a search algorithm, his gaze riveted on the screen. "Well, there is one. We just haven't found it yet." He stopped, stared. "Wait a minute."

Don sat up. "What?"

A small screen inset came up, an incoming email, but Charlie ignored it and worked the cursor, hurriedly bringing up another screen. He pointed, excitedly. "This is the list of accounts under Mark Vincent's name that the DA is using for the Jim Montague trial."

"So?"

Charlie clicked again, bringing up the previous screen. The email notice inset was still there, and he impatiently dragged it to the side, out of the way. "This is a search I conducted just this morning of offshore banks. Look at the last two entries. There are two new account numbers there – numbers that weren't on the DA's list."

Don's brow furrowed. "How can you tell, without doing a search on the other list?"

"I can do that to double check, but I remember all the numbers on it," said Charlie. "Those two are new." He was upright in his chair; his eyes glued to the screen, and looked ready to explode with suppressed excitement. "Anyway, look at the date – these accounts were opened a week after the DA stopped collecting data. The two new accounts are not on their list – and they're in Mark Vincent's name!"

Don pursed his lips, turning them into a nearly perfect 'O', his brows drawn in confusion. "Tuttle can't be still running that scam," he said slowly. "That would be nuts. He's got to know he's dodged a bullet here – he'd be crazy to implicate himself again."

Charlie was scribbling on a slip of paper, jabbing sharply with his pencil. His hand was still shaking, Don noticed. Whatever Charlie had found, it couldn't really be anything connected to Tuttle – the man wouldn't be that stupid. Charlie wanted it so badly, was so consumed by his search, that he couldn't see that. "Look, Charlie -," he began, as Charlie flipped to his email screen. Don frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Sending an email to the DA," said Charlie, but he paused, and lowered his hands from the keyboard.

"Charlie, look, I think that might be a little premature," said Don. "Let me have one of my guys – Colby maybe, or Liz – run it down first, before we go getting all excited here -,"

He broke off, as Charlie raised one hand to stop him and put a finger to his lips. "Shh -," he said. He grabbed his mouse and clicked open the latest email on the list, his movements jerky, feverish.

Charlie's mannerisms and single-mindedness, as disturbing as they were, were starting to get a bit irritating. "Charlie, don't shush me. You need to get a grip on reality, here."

"_There's_ reality!" Charlie pointed a finger, shaking with excitement, at the email, and Don squinted at the screen, and read. An address in the Hills was listed, followed by a message. Devoid of punctuation, it seemed to have been written hastily.

_Prof Eppes_

_ I need to speak with you immediately within the hour concerning my sister Audrey I have proof of her involvement in your recent case it is now just after noon she will be out for the next two hours you must come immediately do not bring anyone else in on this yet if you are out and get this message too late do not come and do not email me back I will contact you later Mark Vincent_

"There!" exclaimed Charlie, still pointing triumphantly at the screen even as he rose from his chair, and jotted down the address. He clicked off the screen, powered down the computer, hastily closed the lid and snatched the laptop from the table.

Don rose with him, still staring at the spot on the table where the computer had been as if spellbound, until he suddenly realized his brother was heading for the door. He whirled. "Charlie – wait! What – where are you going?"

"To go see Mark Vincent," Charlie shot back over his shoulder, as if Don were dense.

Don bounded across the room to his side, and grabbed Charlie's arm with his good hand. He had a sudden sickening flash of memory, of doing that exact same thing two weeks ago at the top of the stairs, and Charlie must have had the same thought, because he started to pull away, then stopped dead. The almost deranged look of excitement left his eyes for a moment, and they widened, and Don caught a glimpse of something dark in them that smacked of despair, and guilt. "Charlie, are you nuts? First of all, you can't drive yet, and secondly, you have no idea who sent that email. It couldn't be Mark Vincent – he's in a coma. Something isn't right."

Charlie blinked as if coming out of a trance, and his shoulders fell. Then his chin came up suddenly, and he crossed back to the table, opened the computer and booted it up again. He brought up the email, hit reply, and as Don moved to stand behind him, he could read over his shoulder,

_Who are you?_

They waited a moment, then there was a response.

_Mark Vincent Audrey Paris stepbrother_

Charlie typed,

_That's impossible. Mark Vincent is in a coma._

They waited several minutes this time, and finally a message was returned.

_ I am in a research program for victims of encapsulation they hook me up to controls that use signals from my brain that give me control of a cursor the program is run by Omega Research Group I am being cared for in Audrey's home she does not know I can communicate please there is no time she will be back soon_

Charlie looked up at Don. "That's possible," he said. "I'm familiar with the Omega Research Group, and they _are_ running studies on using electrical signals from the brain to empower paralysis victims – in fact, I was looking at some of their findings relative to my work on cognitive emergence." He looked back at the screen, then up at Don. "I need to go – we don't have to bring this up to the DA if you aren't comfortable with it, but I at least need to see what he has to say." He was typing as he talked.

_I will be there in a half hour._

'_Thank U' _flickered back at them from the screen.

"I'm coming with you," said Don firmly.

Charlie had shut off his computer again, picked it up, and was already heading back toward the door. "That's not necessary – plus he may get spooked if an agent shows up."

Don fell into step beside him. "There's no way you're going there alone," he said.

Charlie snorted. "I think I can handle a quadriplegic by myself."

"You haven't been cleared to drive," Don reminded him. He searched his addled brain for any other excuse that might shut Charlie down. "Besides," he said truthfully, "I don't have enough gas in the SUV to get way out there. I just got clearance to drive, and I haven't been to a gas station, yet."

"I can see just fine," Charlie retorted, as he strode out the front door, pausing to snatch the keys to the Prius from the small table in the vestibule. "I'll take my car."

Don, on his heels, stopped to shut the door behind them. "Charlie, I'm going with you, and that's final." He sighed. "Give me the damn keys."

Charlie opened his mouth to retort, but as he glanced at Don, apparently he thought better of it. "Fine," he said grudgingly, dropping the keys into Don's outstretched hand. "You can drive, and drop me off there. Then you can go somewhere while I talk to him, and come back for me later." He turned and headed for his car, with Don on his heels.

Don rolled his eyes as he glanced longingly at the SUV he had just gotten from the FBI's fleet a few days before his accident. Frowning, he pulled open the door of the Prius. "Right. Like I'm going to do that. Even if I would leave you there alone, where would I go for an hour?"

Charlie took his question literally. "I don't know," he said impatiently, scowling, as he flopped into the passenger seat. "Go to a therapy appointment for your arm, get a haircut or a burger, go reflect at the synagogue, or something. I'll be fine. I can call you when I'm done."

Don scowled at him, as he started the vehicle. "Maybe the synagogue wouldn't be such a bad idea," he shot back. "I could go pray for patience for dealing with younger siblings."

At that, Charlie shut his mouth tightly, and they rode in silence for a few miles. Don glanced sideways, and his frustration melted as he took in the miserable hunched figure beside him. "Look, Chuck," he said gently. "Maybe you are really onto something here, and maybe it's just coincidence. Either way, it doesn't matter. Remember how it felt when we were in Heise, Idaho, working at the campsites; going out for a beer? We really got along, maybe for the first time in our lives – it felt good."

The tight line of Charlie's mouth had relaxed, and he was looking at Don, now, surprise and a hint of gratitude in his eyes. Don glanced at him, smiled slightly, and continued. "I want to get back there, Buddy – I don't really care about all the rest of this. I mean, it would be great if you could nail Tuttle, but it would be even greater if we could put this behind us, and be friends again."

Charlie let out a small, shaky sigh. Regret and guilt were still apparent in his face, but a bit of relief had crept into his expression. "Yeah, I'd really like that."

With that, silence descended again, but this time, at least for the moment, it was warm and comfortable, and wrapped around them like a blanket, all the way into the sunset-bathed Hills.

As they drove, Don mulled over the cryptic message again. He had half a mind to call Colby for some backup, but if Vincent and his sister really were involved, a full contingent of agents might scare her off before they could nab her - not to mention that to pull a squad full of agents out on a sting cost money – time, equipment, hazardous duty pay. Plus, it was possible that the man could be mistaken – he might really have nothing on her. In these penny-pinching times, Wright would be irate if Don called a raid without some solid evidence – when he was supposed to be off-duty, to boot. No, Don decided, before he called out the cavalry, it would be best if they found out what Mark Vincent had to say.

**…..**

Audrey was browsing in her favorite shop on Rodeo Drive, when it hit her. She stepped away toward the door, and rummaged frantically in her purse. She _had _brought her prepaid cell phone with her, hadn't she?

Her fingers closed on a phone, but it was her regular cell phone – not the red prepaid phone that she used to contact Nardek. She searched her bag, but came up empty – at least as far as the phone was concerned - the huge bag seemed to hold nearly everything else. "Damn it," she hissed under her breath. She couldn't afford to be without that phone – not today, when the first hit was likely to go down. If anything went wrong, and Nardek needed to get hold of her…

She exhaled, trying to control her sigh of exasperation, and smiled at a sales clerk as she pushed through the door. "Forgot my credit card," she said. "I'll be back."

Once out the door, her scowl returned, and it stayed with her as she got into her car, started it, and pulled out into traffic, heading for home.

**…**

End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14: Dinner Conversation

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 14: Dinner Conversation**

**…**

Amita placed her order in a quiet voice, handed the menu to the waitress, and sipped her water while Alan asked about the freshness of the red snapper. The waitress finally left the table (after Alan decided to go with the orange roughy), and Amita tried to smile at Alan as she returned the glass to the table.

"Thank you for meeting me for dinner," she said, her tone apologetic. "I hope it wasn't an imposition. I know you've missed a lot of time at work the last few weeks."

Alan's answering smile was more genuine than Amita's had been. "Nonsense," he insisted. "Spending time with my daughter is never an imposition. Kath understands that I needed to help Don; besides, I'm really more of a consultant there, anyway." He winked, chuckling. "Like son, like father?"

Amita felt tears well in her eyes when Alan referred to her as his daughter, and missed most of the rest of his response. "I love you so much," she whispered in a wobbly voice. "I hope you know that."

Alan's smile faltered and he reached across the table to take one of Amita's hands in his. "I love you as well," he answered gently. "I truly think of you as my daughter, and it disturbs me to see you in such pain. What can I do?"

Amita used her free hand to brush at her face, took a deep breath and tried to reign in her emotions. She squeezed Alan's hand. "I'm worried about Charlie," she admitted.

Alan frowned. "In what way? There are a lot of options when choosing something to worry about when it comes to Charlie."

Amita sputtered a giggle, jerking away from Alan's grip so that she could hold her hand in front of her mouth. He leaned back in his chair and winked again. "Are you concerned about his vision? Tramadol withdrawal? His incessant and constant researching of something he won't share with either of us?" He sighed, picked up his fork and started toying with it. "Because frankly, I'm way ahead of you on all three."

Amita gazed at the white linen tablecloth, her expression introspective. "Well, yes, of course," she confirmed. "All of the above. I don't think he's really accepted his visual status." She glanced up at Alan. "He's not trying to learn how to adjust, he's just charging ahead like nothing is different. He bounces off stationary objects like a sphere in a pinball machine. Besides worrying about exactly _what_ he's been working on, I also worry that he's doing more damage to his eyes, spending so much time on the laptop. And obviously, stopping the tramadol so abruptly has made him a little...testy."

Alan snorted, and lifted an eyebrow. "You're too kind," he muttered.

Amita tilted her head, still thinking. "That's not all. Sometimes, at school, he scribbles expressions right off the chalkboard, onto the walls - and last week, one of his grad students caught a flaw in his math."

Alan's eyes widened. "You're kidding."

Amita was on a roll, now. "Plus, there's this whole thing with Don. Since the accident..." She looked sharply at Alan. "And it _was_ an accident; even Don says that...anyway, since the accident, I don't think Charlie has been alone with his brother at all. The two of them were so close after Idaho and Chicago. On more than one occasion, Charlie said that a little vision problem was not too high a price to pay for his new relationship with Don."

Alan winced. "Charlie always worshiped his brother," he murmured, his focus on the table. After a moment of silence, he met Amita's eyes with his own, again. "What else?" he asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

She blushed. Disconcerted, she looked away briefly, then looked back at Alan. "I can't explain it - at least not in terms I'm comfortable with, terms acceptable to a scientist."

Alan's expression remained serious. "Try explaining it in terms acceptable to a woman in love," he advised.

Amita frowned. She could see the waitress headed in their direction, a tray of food balanced near one shoulder. "I don't know," Amita said. "It's just a feeling I have...a fear, really, that none of this is over."

**...**

Aaron Shulman laughed heartily, so hard that tears came to his eyes. He shook his head, picked up his fork and began to twist spaghetti around the utensil.

"I swear, Dad. I tell my friends that you're one of the funniest people I know, and no one believes me. Rabbis don't exactly have big reputations in the humor department."

Rabbi Shulman arched a bushy eyebrow and absently stroked his long beard. "My own father, the third Rabbi Shulman, was always disturbed by my use of humor," he admitted. "Papa was afraid that I would become a stand-up comedian, and break the long line of rabbis Shulman."

Aaron's smile faltered, and his fork stilled in the spaghetti. "I miss grandfather - but I guess it would have broken his heart, if he had lived long enough to watch me turn my back on the family business."

His father regarded him for a moment. "Eat," he encouraged gently. "Your grandfather is not here - and your father has a son who is a doctor. What man could regret such a thing? Still, I am pleased that you have begun to spend more time at the synagogue, my son."

Aaron grinned, lifting the forkful of spaghetti toward his mouth. "Be satisfied with Mincha, Pop," he advised. "You're on your own for Ma'ariv."

Rabbi Shulman smiled behind his beard, picked up his own fork and headed for his steak. "Even old rabbis have dreams, my Aaron. Today you come for Mincha; tomorrow, you stay for Ma'ariv."

Aaron swallowed his spaghetti and grinned as he reached for his water glass. "Your dreams probably have me at the synagogue on a permanent basis," he teased.

The rabbi sawed at his rib eye. "Ah," he murmured. "You give an old man a new dream."

**...**

Don steered the Prius down the tree-lined gravel drive toward a looming Victorian and muttered. "This is insane. Fine, maybe that really was Mark Vincent, but this could still be a trap. Hell, this place looks like something out of _The Munsters_. It's secluded, spooky - Audrey could be waiting behind the front door, for all we know."

Charlie looked toward his brother - or both of him, since turning his head quickly to extreme positions still messed with his vision - and grinned. "I told you, just drop me off and come back. Big, bad, tough, FBI agent; did you just say _spooky_?"

Don shot his brother a glance and frowned. "_Hinky_," he growled, looking back toward the house. "I said this whole thing makes me feel _hinky_."

Charlie chuckled, redirected his head to face front, and waited for the fog to clear. His nose began to run - something that had been happening a lot, lately - and he groped around in his pocket for the tissue he had begun carrying. As he did, the fingers of both hands began to tingle, and burn; he almost dropped the tissue before he got his hand up to his face. _Great_, he thought. _It's starting again_. Charlie knew he was about to spend at least a few minutes in full-out withdrawal symptoms, and now he was even more determined that Don should just drop him off and leave. The last thing he needed was for his brother to witness exactly what stopping tramadol was doing to him; especially now, when there was a glimpse of their old relationship at the end of the tunnel.

"I'm not an idiot," Charlie said a little testily. "You were sitting right there driving, when I searched property tax records. This property is not even owned by a woman, much less Audrey Paris. Maybe it's some kind of foster home, or something." Don made a noise that was one part unintelligible, two parts disdainful. Charlie began shivering, and felt himself losing control. "Don't be such an ass," he snapped. "Drop me in front of the house. You don't even have to come back. You said you wanted to go to see visit your Rabbi earlier – go do that. There must be a phone inside - I'll just call a taxi."

Don had not been oblivious to Charlie's growing withdrawal symptoms, and knew he was trying to escape. He had been trying to cut his brother some slack; but now, he felt his own temper flare. "I thought you said you weren't an idiot," he snarked, pulling the car to a halt in front of the silent house. "So explain to me again how you forgot your cell phone."

Charlie had the door open before the vehicle had reached a full stop. "Leave me alone," he seethed, suddenly so angry he couldn't see straight - as if he could anymore, anyway. "You wouldn't understand what's happening with Mark, anyway; it's very cutting edge, serious research. No baseball stats involved." He slammed the door in his brother's startled face, and tried to plot a steady course for the home's front door. "Go away," he shouted over his shoulder. "I'll tell you later what I find out."

Don slammed his open hand onto the steering wheel. "Stupid, annoying, stupid!" he yelled. He dropped his hand to the ignition and soon the vehicle's engine roared to life. His hand shot back to the steering column, and he shifted into reverse.

**...**

Paully was bored.

Worse, he was stuck in a vehicle with a pissed-off Dominic, and he was starting to wonder why he'd offered his old friend this job. Paully was starting to remember why he seldom worked with Dom.

"There weren't that many people around," complained Dominic. "We should have taken him out when we first saw him."

Paully sighed. "Sometimes I wonder how you ever got so far in this business," he countered. "_All_ people are potential witnesses; it's always better to avoid them. If that's not possible, you wait until dark, hope for the crowd to thin, maybe set up a distraction...you should know all this."

Dominic sighed. "I'm not a patient man," he admitted. He shot a grin in Paully's direction. "I got this far in the business because I never miss."

Paully snorted. "Damn sight luckier than you have a right to be, too." He shifted a little, straightening behind the steering wheel. "He's back," he breathed.

Dominic nodded. "It's about time. At least the street lights and the parking lot lights have come on; we can make it a drive-by."

Paully started the engine. "You sure you got enough light?" he asked. "I ain't telling Spike we screwed this one up."

Dom hefted the 9mil semiautomatic, absently caressing the cold steel as he attached the noise suppressor and smiled. "I told you," he said. "I never miss. Just make sure you do your part; get us the hell out of Dodge as fast as you can when it's over."

Paully eased the sports car out into traffic. "Don't worry about that," he bragged. "Folks are always calling me _Dale_ by accident."

Dominic lowered the passenger-side window and frowned, confused. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" he asked, never taking his eyes off his target.

Paully increased the pressure on the gas pedal, almost imperceptibly. He rolled his eyes. "_Dale Earnhardt_, you idiot. Race car driver?" Dominic did not respond, totally consumed by the man striding across the synagogue's parking lot. Paully increased the car's speed again with a glance at the man - yep, it was Don Eppes, all right. "You gotta get out more," he muttered.

Dominic's only answer was a grunted, _"Drive, Dale."_

Paully heard the command clearly, even though the silenced shot was still loud in the confines of the vehicle. A tight smile creased his face as he registered, in his peripheral vision, the falling body in the parking lot. The pedal hit the metal, and Paully zoomed into the night.

**...**

End, Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15: Farewell

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 15: Farewell**

**…**

Alan stood in the living room of the Craftsman and exchanged a confused gaze with Amita. "Where's Charlie? You said you dropped him off earlier, right?"

Amita was descending the staircase, having already taken an armload of books up to the bedroom she shared with Charlie. She frowned, eyes scanning the empty living room. "He's not upstairs," she said. "I expected to come home and find him at the dining room table, his nose buried in the laptop..." She glanced toward the dining room, and her eyes narrowed. "Where's the laptop?" She shrugged as she looked back at Alan. "Don's SUV is in the driveway, but Charlie's Prius isn't. They must have gone somewhere together."

The chime of the doorbell prohibited Alan from answering. He arched an eyebrow. "That's probably the folks from Idaho. They're leaving in the morning, and wanted to come over to say goodbye." He shook his head as he started for the door, muttering. "This is a mess. No Charlie, and I couldn't reach Don..."

He opened the front door, smiled, and held the door open wide. "Colby!" he exclaimed, surprised. "Always good to see you, son!"

Colby grinned, ducking his head a little self-consciously. "Hey, Alan. Hold up a sec, Sam's right behind me."

Alan peered into the darkness. "Just Sam?"

Colby nodded. "He and I went out to dinner. Doris and Harry are supposed to meet us here."

Sam soon appeared, and Alan ushered them both into the living room. Amita was moving toward the kitchen, but paused to greet the guests. "Hi, guys," she said. "I was just heading into the kitchen, to see if Charlie left a note. Beer?"

Colby snickered. "Like you even have to ask."

Amita smiled and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. Sam looked at Alan. "Charlie's not here? Dorrie'll be heartbroken."

Alan led the way into the living room. "Sit," he invited. "Amita and I just got home ourselves, and we can't find him. He can't drive yet..."

Colby interrupted, settling into one end of the couch. "Don, on the other hand, just got his clearance. I talked to him earlier and he couldn't wait to get behind the wheel again. Said he might go by the synagogue, visit Charlie - maybe they went to see Rabbi Shulman together."

"Thank you," Sam said to Amita, who had returned with several bottles of beer. From his end of the couch, he tilted his bottle at the coffee table. "Probably didn't go far. Isn't that his cell phone?"

Amita leaned to pick up the phone. "Now _that's_ really weird. Charlie's always got his phone."

Alan studied his beer. "I don't know," he murmured. "Charlie's not exactly himself right now. I almost hope Don _did_ take him along on a visit to the Rabbi, as unlikely as that is." Amita blushed, and Alan cleared his throat before he looked at Sam. ".Colby's probably right - Don must have showed up, and the two of them left together." He sighed. "I left Don a voice mail, telling him that you would stop by tonight and would be heading home tomorrow."

Colby suddenly set his beer bottle onto the coffee table with a solid plunk. The others all glanced at him. "Sorry," he shrugged, reaching for his own cell phone. "I'm not on tonight..." He studied the display for a moment, then started to return the phone to the waistband of his jeans. "Just David," he said. "I'll call him later."

"Take the call," advised Sam. "Once Dorrie gets here, you may never get another second to yourself."

Alan chuckled and Colby grinned, pushing himself off the couch and wandering toward the dining room. He flipped the phone open and brought the cell to his ear. "Hey, David. You forget I'm not on, tonight?" Amita had been about to sit on one of the easy chairs that Alan had moved into the living room before meeting her for dinner, but Colby's posture - and the tone of his voice - stopped her. Colby's voice took on urgency. "Who's the vic?" He listened for a few more moments, spoke briefly, snapped the cell closed and spun on his heel. "I've got to go," he announced.

Without knowing why, Alan found himself growing nervous. He leaned forward in his chair. "You've been drinking," he pointed out.

Colby glanced at the beer on the table. "I just got started," he countered. "It's not even half gone."

Alan stood. "Why do you have to go, if you're not on-call? Is something wrong?"

Colby glanced at Sam, then back to Alan. Regret clouded his face. "I'm sorry," he said. "There's been a shooting."

He started toward the door, but Amita moved to cut off his route. Her voice was unnaturally shrill when she spoke. "What? Who?"

Colby glanced at Sam, again. The sheriff has climbed to his feet as well, and was moving to stand near Alan. Colby tried to smile and offer some reassurance. "It's probably nothing," he started.

Alan's voice was hard. "Tell us," he commanded.

Colby hesitated, then decided he owed them the truth. "We're not sure," he admitted. "No one's on scene, yet. But the call...the 9-1-1 call reported two men down outside a synagogue."

Alan paled, and Amita sagged. "Which synagogue?" she whispered.

Colby's response was an answering whisper. "Rabbi Shulman's."

**...**

Dominic yawned, and watched from across the street as the front door of the Craftsman opened at the same time that yet another vehicle pulled into the driveway. "This place is a bus station," he grumbled. "People all over the place."

"I know," agreed Paully, shifting a little behind the wheel of their rented vehicle. "Only one I haven't seen yet is the guy we're after."

Dom watched as the two new arrivals paused in front of the house to talk to someone who was obviously in the process of leaving. "I say we come back later," he suggested. "Maybe check out that college, see if the professor is still on campus. We got way too many witnesses here."

Paully leaned to turn the keys in the ignition and fire up the engine. He agreed. "Yeah, you're probably right."

**...**

Liz could feel Nikki's stare, but she refused to look at her. If she met those dark, concerned eyes, Liz knew that her own eyes would fill with tears - and that was not the part of her that needed to be in the forefront at the moment. Instead, she channeled her "hard-as-nails, tough-as-they-come, Federal-FUCKIN'-Bureau-of-Investigation" agent mode as she climbed out of the sedan.

She silently thanked Don Eppes, who had taught her all about compartmentalizing her life. He had taught by example, completely oblivious to the lessons, but he had taught well. Liz had learned much from Don, starting with his stint as an instructor at the FBI academy in Quantico. She had continued to learn when she had occupied his bed - and she had never kidded herself. Occasional dinners at the Craftsman and double dates with Charlie and Amita had never hidden the truth; she occupied Don's _bed_, as opposed to his _life_. Now, as just another agent who looked to him as Special Agent in Charge of the Los Angeles bureau, Liz was still learning from Don Eppes. He had much to teach, and she had much to learn. She had expected the lessons to go on for quite some time.

She strode past several LAPD police cars and an ambulance, her jaw clenched so hard that her teeth hurt. Several emergency lights were whirling; light poured from within the synagogue, and the exterior of the building was well-lit. It was not difficult at all to see the rabbi kneeling on the ground, rocking over the body that lay before him. Nor was it difficult to hear his keening, haunting, wail, even though the crime scene bustled with activity and noise.

An ambulance had arrived right behind her when she pulled up to the scene. Now, two paramedics brushed by the agents, eyes on each other as they rushed toward the bodies on the lawn. "...damn shame," one of them murmured, and the other nodded in agreement.

"Sounds bad," he murmured. "Hope it's not another DOA."

Their voices faded as the distance between the paramedics and the agents grew. Liz lifted her chin defiantly, and continued toward the victim.

Nikki was suddenly walking beside her. "Just because dispatch can't reach Don, and the vic matches his general description..." she started, but Liz cut her off, her voice as cold as ice... as cold as her heart.

"Use your LAPD contacts. Find out if there were any witnesses."

Nikki sputtered. "But..."

Liz had become steel. "But nothing, Bettancourt. I'm the senior agent on the scene until Sinclair gets here. When I give you an order, you damn well do it."

Nikki - street-smart, rash, unpredictable Nikki - sounded more sympathetic than affronted. "Yes, Ma'am," she answered softly, veering away from Liz - but brushing Liz's shoulder with her own as she did.

It was the merest touch - but it almost broke Liz. Almost...but not quite. She stepped into the halo of light that surrounded the wailing rabbi and the EMTs, and forced herself to look down at the body lying in a growing pool of blood. It would not be Don Eppes, Liz said to herself, her gaze immediately drawn to the clotted blood in the wavy, dark, hair.

It would not be Don Eppes.

**...**

End, Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16: Of Gerbils and Blessings

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 16: Of Gerbils and Blessings**

**… **

Don allowed Charlie's Prius to lurch forward a few feet before he tromped on the brakes and the vehicle screeched to a halt. "Little moron," he muttered, watching Charlie almost fall as he stepped off the sidewalk that approached the Victorian's front door. His brother staggered, managed to veer back onto the concrete, and eventually stopped in front of the house. As Don leaned slightly to open the glove compartment of the car and grab his gun, he continued to mutter. "Cops and big brothers are _never_ off duty," he mumbled. "At least I brought my service weapon with me." A glance through the windshield revealed Charlie politely knocking on the door. "Who the hell does he think is going to answer that?" he griped, yanking the Glock out even as he hurried to lean back the other way. "A paralyzed guy who everybody thinks is in a coma?" His casted right hand gripped the gun awkwardly as his left hand groped for the driver's side door handle. He swore under his breath when he almost dropped the gun. He managed to hold onto it without firing a hole through the floorboard Charlie's car, but knocked Charlie's closed laptop off the seat as he tried to maintain his grip. The computer thudded to the floor. "Good," grunted Don. "I hope the damn thing is broken."

By the time Don was out of the vehicle and had caught up to his brother, Charlie had figured out that Mark couldn't open the door. He was just turning the doorknob when Don appeared behind him and placed his good hand on Charlie's shoulder. Charlie started violently and raised his arms defensively while he tried to twist away. "What?" he yelled. "No!"

Don twisted Charlie's jacket in his hand and somehow kept his brother from flying off the small porch. "Calm the hell down. It's me."

Charlie glared at him. "Don't DO that!" He tried to pull away from Don's grip. "What are you doing here, anyway? I told you to leave."

Don rolled his eyes. "And what in our history leads you to believe that's even a possibility?" he hissed.

Charlie's eyes widened; then narrowed. "There was the time you broke Mom's favorite vase and blamed it on me."

Don let go of Charlie and reached around him to cautiously push open the door, his gun still gripped loosely in his right hand. "I did _not_ break it," he insisted, peering inside the dark house as the door creaked spookily like something in a bad movie. "You're the one who didn't catch the baseball." He contemplated a hall that led to the rear of the house, and a staircase that led to the second floor. "Besides, I meant _recent_ history."

Charlie took a step into the house. "Mark?" he called. In a quieter tone he murmured to Don. "I was four. If I had caught the ball, it would have broken my little hand."

Don pushed in behind Charlie. "He can't answer, genius. We're going to have to search until we find him. And how would a four-year-old come to such a stunning conclusion?"

"Mark said Audrey is due back soon, we don't have much time," answered Charlie. "We should split up. And I calculated the estimated speed and force of your throw based on earlier patterns. Plus, the trajectory was slightly off, as evidenced by the lamp's tipping. You're lucky you didn't break that, too."

Don sighed. "We're not splitting up – I only have one gun. You were such a little geek. Patterns and trajectories and estimated speed calculations..." His tone of voice became curious. "What patterns?"

Charlie started toward the shadowed hall. "I don't think a paralyzed man needs to be subdued with a weapon, Don," he sniffed. "I'll search down here. The patterns I had observed all morning in the back yard, before it started raining. I was watching you play catch with...that...whatsizname, from down the street."

Don didn't like the odds; he could think of a few patterns himself. More than likely, a paralyzed man was housed on the first floor of the house. He planted a hand in Charlie's back and steered him toward the staircase. "_You're_ taking the upstairs," he commanded. "It was Frankie; you never could remember his name."

Charlie shrugged; he didn't care who searched what, as long as they found Mark sooner, rather than later. "Fine," he said, reorienting himself toward the stairs. "I didn't like Frankie. Whenever he came over, you wouldn't play with me." He gripped the banister with his right hand, for balance, and lifted a foot toward the first step.

Don felt a pang at Charlie's admission. "So I wasn't always a great role model," he admitted. Then he grinned wickedly at Charlie's back. "Of course, there was always the gerbil incident."

Charlie sputtered a laugh, glancing over his shoulder. "Who knew a gerbil was so flammable?"

Don grinned back. "Be careful on the stairs, Buddy; watch where you're going."

Charlie's smile relaxed into an expression of trust and love. "I'm good," he insisted, hand still gripping the banister. "Your behavioral pattern indicates that you've got my back."

**...**

Audrey Paris clenched the wheel of her car, her hands taut with frustration. "Can't even get out for a goddamned afternoon of shopping," she muttered, eyeing a red light dourly. She'd been in a glorious meth-enhanced mood at the start of the trip, but midway through her second stop, at a custom handbag shop on Rodeo Drive, she realized that she had left her prepaid cell phone at home – and today, of all days, that phone was all-important. Today was the day that the men hired by Nardek were supposed to carry out their hits on the Eppes brothers, and she needed to be reachable by Nardek, just in case something went wrong. In fact, the shopping trip was supposed to be part of her alibi, in the event that the feds questioned whether she was involved. She had planned to spend the day making sure she was recorded on the security cameras planted in every Rodeo Drive shop, and then had actually made plans for dinner. Susan, the old girlfriend she'd called, had sounded surprised – no, make that shocked – at her call, but she'd agreed to meet for dinner. Susan didn't know it, but she was Audrey's alibi for the evening hours.

Audrey had smiled at the helpful clerk at the handbag shop through gritted teeth when she realized she didn't have her phone, and told her she forgot her credit card, and promised to be back. Now she was just minutes from home. The light changed, she stepped on the gas and the car surged forward, and she rounded the corner and began the winding climb up the hill, along the desolate road that led to her monstrosity of a house – her wonderful, isolated aerie. An eerie aerie. She giggled, and her head jerked. Damn meth. She giggled again, and tried to corral her wandering mind. It was still early evening. She would run in, grab the phone, and head back for another hour of shopping before driving to meet Susan for dinner. She would end up with an unplanned gap in her alibi, but it would be explainable, and she was beginning to not give a damn, anyway, they couldn't touch her, couldn't touch her – her head jerked again, and she swore, her face suddenly contorted with hate. "Can't touch me, you bastards," she muttered, smacking the wheel for emphasis. "Can't touch me…,"

Her thoughts trailed off as she rounded the corner, her heart lurching as she saw the strange vehicle parked in front of the house. She still hadn't reached the clearing for the house yet, her car was obscured by the trees leading up the winding hill, and she pulled over, out of sight. Who in the hell was here? She sat for a moment, her mouth working like a fish, then groped feverishly for her purse, and pulled out her 9 mm handgun. It was new, a street piece that she'd picked up from her meth dealer a couple weeks after being released. Gripping it tightly, she slipped out of the car, and began to follow the tree line.

**...**

Don watched Charlie ascend the stairs, and then walked quietly through the foyer to a doorway beyond that led to a hallway. The place was dark and silent, and reminded him of a stereotypical haunted mansion in an old Hollywood movie. He moved as quickly as he dared, trying not make noise. He passed a living room, barely discernable in the faint light that slipped past shuttered windows, and then he reached a closed door. It wasn't latched, and he gently eased it open, then stopped and stared.

The figure in the bed looked barely alive. The light was dim in this room too, but at least there was some, and Don could see that the man's eyes were open, and appeared to be trained on a computer screen. Tubing was attached to his throat, and Don could see his chest rise and fall with the regular hiss of a respirator. Mark Vincent. Although the figure was a riveting sight, Don still didn't forget his training, or ignore the unsettled feeling that had his hair standing on end. He took a quick look back down the hallway, and then another one around the room, before proceeding inside.

From the looks of it, the room had been a library, and had been converted into a first floor bedroom for Vincent. Don approached him quietly, and put himself in the man's line of vision. "Mark Vincent – my name is Don Eppes. I know you asked my brother to come alone – he's here too, and he'll join us any second – but it's just the two of us."

There was no response, not even the flicker of an eyelid, although Vincent's eyes were open. They seemed to be tracking him, although it was hard to tell. Don hesitated for a moment, trying to determine whether he had been heard, when it suddenly occurred to him to turn and look at the computer screen, placed in front of Vincent. A cursor blinked behind a string of words.

_Thank God I have been waiting for you_

**…**

Audrey skirted the trees all the way around behind the house to the opposite side, and darted across the last few open yards to a side door that led to the kitchen. Inside, she paused and listened, and slipped off her shoes. She thought could hear a low voice, but she couldn't place the location of the sound's source. She tiptoed forward and peered out the door of the kitchen, through the dark side hallway. It ran past the stairs toward the front entrance, and as she started into it, she heard a step on the landing upstairs. Panicked, she ducked into the gloom next to the stairs, but not before she caught a quick glimpse of a slight figure with dark curly hair moving along the second floor landing, on his way to the stairs. Unmistakably – Charlie Eppes. The jolt of fear flashed through her, leaving a black, hot, unreasonable rage in its place. All the planning – getting Nardek on her side, stealing Tuttle's money, hiring the hit men – it was all going to go down the drain, because Eppes was one step ahead of her. She shook with fury, but forced herself to take a breath and think.

By the sound of the footsteps, the professor was nearing the stairs, and she again heard the low voice – but it wasn't coming from Charlie Eppes. Instead, it seemed to be emanating from the library. So there were at least two – probably only two, no more than five of them, because there was only one vehicle. The most likely scenario was that the professor had come with his brother, Don Eppes. Well, she was going make damned sure that neither one of them was going to leave alive.

She didn't want to use her gun – at least not yet – it would alert whoever was in the library. She needed a quick, quiet way to take out the professor. Her eyes fell on a heavy decorative brass urn on a side table next to her. She grabbed it by a handle, and as the footsteps passed her and reached the bottom of the stairs, she lunged out of the darkness next to the stairs, and swung.

The urn connected with the curly head with a nasty thump, the professor uttered a sound that was half grunt, half expelled air, and collapsed, lying still on the floor. Audrey stood over him a moment to make sure he wasn't moving, and then, clutching the urn and her gun, padded on bare feet toward the library. A wild, feral feeling surged through her, the thrill of danger mixed with the taste of vengeance and victory. Her head jerked and she smiled, her eyes glittering in the darkness, as she turned down the hallway that led to the library.

**…..**

Don peered at the words forming slowing on the screen, watching in amazement as the cursor darted to and fro, striking letters on a virtual keyboard displayed on the monitor.

_Audrey is dangerous She is plotting with Nardek to kill you and your brother and pin it on Tuttle I have proof I will show you_

The words stopped abruptly, then vanished, and Don waited. The cursor was hovering over a file, and Don, surmising that Vincent was having a hard time getting it to click on the file, reached for a mouse to help him.

He was so intent on the monitor, the slight sound almost didn't register, and when it did, it was just a split second too late. Don turned just in time to catch a blur of movement, and then his head exploded. There was last fleeting split second of consciousness – a roaring sensation and a wall of grayness, which slipped away to blackness, and silence.

**…**

Liz was nearly overwhelmed by dread as she approached. There was so much blood, and so much of it was on the victim's face. Body size and hair color indicated that the vic really could be Don – although she couldn't quite bring herself to look, not yet. The rabbi was physically removed by one of the EMTs, and now Rabbi Shulman was standing a few feet away from the body, his hands clasped in front of his chin. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, murmuring. As Agent Warner turned away from the vic and approached the rabbi, she made out what he was saying. "My son, my son, my son..."

Liz felt a brief stab of hope, followed by immediate guilt, and almost immediate dread: for all she knew, Rabbi Shulman called every male – including Don – his "son". Such a thing would not be unusual in a religious environment. "Rabbi," she said gently, "I'm Agent Warner of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. LAPD called us to the scene."

He focused watery eyes on her, then reached out and clutched at one of her hands with both of his. "I asked for the FBI," he said, his voice breaking. "I want to talk to Don Eppes. Can you contact him?"

Liz let the disturbed man grip her hand and took a deep breath, nearly overwhelmed again - this time, with relief. "Agent Eppes is our SAC," she informed him. "He's on medical leave right now, and we have been unable to reach him." The rabbi uttered a noise of distress and let go of her hand. "We'll keep trying," Liz added quickly.

The rabbi nodded distractedly, his eyes drawn back to the scene on the ground in front of him. "My strength," he moaned, "my AIRan..." He began to rock to-and-fro again, his mutterings becoming unintelligible.

Liz took a step to the side, to partially block his view of the paramedics and their frantic activity. "Rabbi," she said, firmly, but still gently. "Can you tell me what happened?"

This time when he looked at her, unfettered tears ran down his face, from his eyes into his long, gray, beard. "I do not know," he half-groaned. "My son, my Airan..." he had begun to pronounce the name with its Hebrew inflection. He looked at Liz, confusion mixing with the grief on his face. "We went to dinner. Airan brought me back to the synagogue so that I could prepare for Ma'riv. I...I had a book for him. In my office. I forgot to give it to him earlier...we were just walking across the parking lot..."

Liz pressed for more. "Did you hear anything? See anything?"

The rabbi shook his head. "Nothing, nothing," he said unhappily. "One second, my Airan is laughing, and the next, he is on the ground..." He broke into a choked sob and tried to push his way past Liz. "Please. I must be with him."

Liz placed a restraining hand softly on the rabbi's upper arm. "Let the paramedics do their job," she advised.

His eyes flashed darkly and he pulled away from her, taking a step backwards. "And I shall do mine," he whispered, closing his eyes and bringing his hands to their original position in front of his chin. His voice was clear, calm, and resonant as he began to chant: _"Mi-sheberakh avoteinu v'imoteinu, Avraham v'Sarah, Yitzhak v'Rivkah, Ya'akov, Rachel v'Leah hu y'varekh et AIRan v'yavi aleihem refuat hanefesh u'refuat haguf yachad im kol cholei amo Yisrael. Barukh atah Hashem, rofeh ha'cholim."*_

**...**

End, Chapter 16

*A traditional Jewish blessing for healing: _May the One who was a source of blessing for our ancestors, bring blessings of healing upon Aaron, a healing of body and a healing of spirit. May those in whose care they are entrusted be gifted with wisdom and skill, and those who surround them be gifted with love and trust, openness and support in their care. And may they be healed along with all those who are in need. Blessed are You, Source of healing._


	17. Chapter 17: Close Your Eyes and Pray

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 17: Close Your Eyes and Pray**

**…**

Mark Vincent watched helplessly as Audrey crept up behind the agent and swung something – it looked like a brass urn – just as Don Eppes turned his head. The urn hit with a metallic thump, and Don Eppes pitched forward, his eyes rolling back in his head. He fell against Mark's bed, pushing it sideways. Mark found himself swiveled around nearly one hundred eighty degrees, unable to see the computer, unsure even if the apparatus that read his brain signals was still attached to it. It wouldn't matter if it was – if he could not see the computer screen, he could not move the cursor to the proper places on the screen to select letters and type messages. He was trapped inside himself, again, unable to communicate.

He was, however, in a position to see some of what was happening. He could not see the agent, undoubtedly slumped at his bedside – Eppes was below him and was too close to the bed. He could see Audrey, though, and she was a frightening sight. She looked unhinged; her clothes awry, her normally flawless hair mussed, sticking out in clumps. Her eyes were glassy, and her lips parted in a victorious smile that smacked of insanity. She was breathing heavily, standing with her legs apart, and as she caught her breath, she set down the urn and stuck the gun she was holding into the back waistband of her pants. As she did so, some semblance of normalcy returned to her eyes. They turned calculating, as she assessed the figure on the floor beneath her. She stepped forward towards the bed and bent down; Mark couldn't see what she was doing, but when she came up, she was holding a cell phone, and another gun – apparently taken from Eppes. She regarded them for a moment with a look of trepidation, then suddenly, she turned, and ran out of the room. Mark could hear the front door slam, and he felt a surge of relief. That was it, then, she was going to run and just leave them there. Eventually the agent would wake up, and get them some help.

That fairy tale was short-lived. Just moments later, the door slammed again, and he heard his sister thumping up the staircase. Moments later, he heard her come back down. Audrey hurried back into the room, bearing two sets of handcuffs and a couple of lengths of rope. The handcuffs were covered in a fuzzy pink material, and Mark experienced a jolt of shock. What was Audrey capable of? What had happened to the kind sister he used to adore? She bent next to his bed, grunting a little as she wrestled with the unconscious heap on the floor, and Mark could hear the click of handcuffs as she applied them to one wrist. Then with a groan and a curse, she bent down and began to drag the agent across the room. As she got away from the bedside, the agent himself came into view. Mark could see his head lolling to one side, his eyes closed. Mark couldn't see a bruise or any blood – apparently the blow hadn't been hard enough, or the bruising was hidden in the agent's hair. He was, however, unfortunately and completely out.

There was a fireplace with an ornate, wrought iron grate a few yards away. Audrey, panting, dragged the agent over to it, and attached his cuffed wrist to the iron grating. Part of that grating appeared to be built into the stone – it would make a secure anchor. Mark could now see why she had only cuffed one hand – the agent's other arm was in a cast. The cast had been hidden by his jacket, and Mark hadn't even noticed it until now. Audrey then took the other set of handcuffs and cuffed his ankles together. She didn't stop to assess her work; she hurried out of the room again.

After a few moments, Mark could hear a sliding noise in the hallway, and Audrey backed through the door, dragging another man. This one was smaller, and as she got him in the room, Mark was not surprised to see a head of dark curly hair. As she turned the limp form and dragged it through the door, Mark recognized the face of Professor Eppes – he'd seen his picture on the Cal Sci website. His heart sank. She had both of them, then – she had all of them, here, helpless in the room together.

She didn't bother to drag the professor to the fireplace; instead she left him in the middle of the floor. She seemed to be searching for something; she patted at the tweed jacket he wore over his T-shirt, and then pulled it off of him in order to go through it better. Finally satisfied that the jacket pockets were empty, she cast it aside, and used one of the lengths of rope to tie the professor's hands behind his back where he lay, and then used the other length of rope to tie his ankles together. She was panting and sweating now, but she didn't pause until she had him secured and she had gone through his pants pockets. She pulled out a wallet, but nothing else. Then she straightened, ran her wrist across her forehead, and headed for the computer.

Mark tensed. He was profoundly grateful he'd erased his conversation with Don Eppes from the computer screen. He'd done it just in time - he'd seen Audrey slink into the room behind Eppes, and had quickly wiped out the words. He hadn't had time to pull up his screen full of squiggles, however, before Eppes had fallen on him and pushed him out of the way, and Audrey's files were clearly visible, although they hadn't had time to open one of them yet. Would she catch on?

If she noticed, it was hard to tell – she came back into his view almost immediately, clutching her prepaid cell phone. She was dialing, and she put it to her ear and waited impatiently. Her hands were shaking, Mark noticed, shaking so hard that she was having a hard time holding the phone to her ear. She pulled it away impatiently from her head and jabbed stiffly at a button, and a male voice poured out of the phone; she had put it on speaker. She laid it on the desk, and began to pace. "_What?"_ came the man's voice._ "You shouldn't be calling right now – my man is supposed to call me. The two men he hired got Don Eppes outside his synagogue, and they went over to check on the professor, but there were too many people at the house. They were going to try to get him later, and it's been awhile – I'm expecting them to give my guy an update."_

Audrey stopped pacing abruptly and snorted at the phone. "They're lying to you."

"_What are you talking about?"_

"Don and Charlie Eppes are right here, at my freaking house!" Audrey had started the sentence through gritted teeth, but her voice kept rising, and the last word came out as a shriek.

"_What? What are you talking about?"_

"I said; they're here. I went shopping, and forgot my phone. When I came back for it, they were inside. I knocked them out and I have them secured, but I need to know what the hell to do now. Send your hit men over or something, I need some help here!"

There was a silence, then the voice said, with new respect, _"You knocked them out?"  
_

"It wasn't that hard," Audrey grumped, but Mark could see a bit of a pleased glint in her eye, as she gazed down at Charlie Eppes. The professor's face was pale, and Mark could see a trickle of blood trailing down his cheek from under his hair. "I caught the little geek coming down the stairs, and I snuck up on Don Eppes in the library. He was trying to get into my computer files. I took his gun and his cell phone out to the car – we've got to get rid of them somehow. There's a laptop in the vehicle, too – maybe we should keep that. You're good with computers – maybe you can find out how much they knew and whether or not they told anyone." The pleased look faded, and Audrey stepped toward the desk, beginning to paw through her purse, frantically. Looking for her stash, Mark was certain.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Audrey looked up from her purse in a sudden panic. "Nardek?" she asked sharply, a note of hysteria in her tone.

"_I'm thinking,"_ said the man she called Nardek.

"Well, think faster," Audrey snapped. "I don't think they drove the fed's car - it's one of those funky little hybrids - but it's probably got one of those anti-theft things on it, a locator device; I _know_ they can trace the GPS chip in the phone. We don't have a lot of time."

"_They can trace the GPS chip in the laptop, too."_

"Then we need to get rid of that, too."

"_Actually, no – we should hang on to that. There's a way to take out the GPS chip – if you give me the model, I can tell you how to do it. I can't leave right away – I'm doing something for Tuttle – he's waiting for me to wire some funds to him in the Carribbean, and he'll get suspicious if the transfer doesn't go through when it's expected. It'll take me about two hours to get out there. Are you sure you have them secured?"_

"I cuffed the agent to some ironwork and tied up the professor." She laughed, a shrill sound close to hysteria. "I still had some of the _gifts_ Everett used to bring me." Her voice calmed a little. "They're both out cold, too." Mark could see that Audrey's hands were still shaking – and now her body was trembling, too, as she rummaged through her purse. "God, I need a hit," she whispered.

"_What?"_

"Nothing." Audrey snapped at the phone, and her head jerked. "They're secured."

"_Are they gagged?"_

Audrey rolled her eyes. "This house is like a tomb – no one outside would hear them yell, even if there was anyone around, which there's not. Mine is the only house on this road."

"_Okay, here's what you do. Go back out to the car and get the laptop, bring it back in here and I'll tell you how to remove the GPS chip. Once you have it, throw on a jacket and a hat, and put on some gloves. Go to the vehicle and wipe down anything you might have touched on or in it, then drive it, with the gun, cell phone, and the GPS chip downtown somewhere and park it. Make sure no one sees you getting out of it, and lock it with the keys inside. Then get a cab to a mall, and then get another cab home. It'll take you a couple of hours – I'll be out there by then." _

"Then what?"

"_Then I'll try to see what's on the computer, and we try to get them to talk. When we have what we want out of them, we get rid of them."_

Audrey stared at the professor on the floor. "Why can't we let your hit men do that?"

"_We might. But I'm not sure I trust them to do the job right – they told me they took out Don Eppes, remember? Plus, I didn't hire them directly. One of our guys – a man who works for Tuttle – did. They still think Tuttle ordered the hit. I'd rather the men he hired didn't know I was involved. It'll be best if we handle this ourselves_."

Audrey glanced at the cell phone display, and gasped. "Damn, I'm supposed to be meeting a girlfriend for dinner in less than an hour."

"_Call her and cancel. Are you expecting anyone at the house? Doesn't your brother have a nurse, or something?" _

Audrey turned her eyes toward Mark, and he tried not to blink. She shook her head. _"_She comes in the morning."

"_Will it seem suspicious if you cancel her?"_

_"_No – she showed me how to change his IV bags myself. I can tell her I'm taking him to an appointment."

"_Just to be on the safe side, then, why don't you cancel the nurse, too? Get moving, now – you don't want to get caught with that vehicle. Make your calls, get that laptop, then call me back, and we'll get that chip out of it. Then you can go get rid of the car."_

The line disconnected, and Audrey dazedly hit the button to turn off the phone. She stood, seemingly staring at nothing for a minute, then straightened, and walked out of the room. Mark knew she was going to get her other phone so she could call her girlfriend and the nurse, and then she was going to get the laptop, and probably a hit of chemical courage while she was at it. He could do nothing, however, but stare at the bodies of the brothers lying on the floor, and hope that one of them would awaken in time to – do what? What could they do, bound and shackled as they were?

Mark closed his eyes, and prayed.

**….**

Rabbi Shulman closed his eyes, and prayed.

He sat, his tiny form rocking on a chair in the waiting room of the hospital. He knew he should be grateful that he was here – by some miracle, his Aaron had survived the shooting, but with a bullet in his head, his son's prospects had to be grim. Shulman tried to steel himself for the inevitable, but hope, painful in itself, would not let him be, so he gave in to it. He would hope, and he would pray, and perhaps God would send him a miracle.

**….**

Colby Granger eyed the diminutive rabbi from a few yards away in the hospital hallway, and spoke quietly to David and Liz. He kept his voice cool, detached – which was the way he always approached David these days. Sinclair had made it clear that he was still holding a grudge over the fact that Colby hadn't been forthcoming with him when the Eppes brothers had been on the run, and his aloofness had first wounded Colby, then angered him. He kept it together, though, especially when working a case. Colby had had plenty of practice at lying to people, at putting on an act, and it was no great stretch to do it now. He was the epitome of unemotional professionalism as he murmured, "They're still working on Aaron Shulman. Got an update from an intern – the bullet is lodged in his head – they're nearly to it, but even if he survives, they aren't sure how functional he'll be."

"I talked to the rabbi," said Liz. "He had no knowledge of anyone who might want to hurt his son, and Nikki checked – there are no current malpractice suits against Aaron Shulman. She and I are going to dig back through his records and try to figure out if there was anyone who might have a beef against him." She sighed, a little shakily. "I have to admit, when that description came through, I had the same thought as everyone else – that it was Don. I didn't realize Aaron Shulman looked so much like him." Her eyes wandered to the little rabbi, rocking to and fro in his private hell. "Maybe that's why the rabbi took such a shine to Don – taking him on as a private student – he reminded him of his son." She looked at David. "You raise Don on his cell yet?"

David shook his head. "No, although I haven't tried for an hour now; I was busy with the crime scene guys."

"He and Charlie could have just gone out to dinner," said Colby. "I'm sure they have plenty to talk about."

David eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Colby's blue eyes flared with anger, but he kept a lid on it. "Just what I said. After that argument, they probably have some patching up to do."

Liz' sharp eyes flitted between them. "What's with you two, lately? You're sniping at each other like an old married couple."

They both looked at her, then David said flatly, "Nothing's with me," and stalked off.

Colby stood there looking uncomfortable for a minute, debating on whether to unload to Liz, then he decided against it, and sighed. "Look, I'm gonna head back to Charlie's house. Maybe Alan or Amita managed to get hold of one of them. Don's gonna want to know about this."

Liz' forehead furrowed, as she looked again at the rabbi. "What if this _is_ related to Don?"

Colby's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

Liz gestured, vaguely. "Just that – well, Aaron Shulman _does_ look a lot like him. And it's odd that Don won't answer his cell."

Colby shrugged. "Well, he _is_ off duty – he's not due back in the office until Monday – in fact, Wright made it clear he wasn't supposed to be anywhere near work until then. Maybe he just turned off his work phone. I'm sure when I get back to Charlie's, Alan will have heard from them – or maybe they'll even be there." Liz nodded, uncertainly, and Colby gave her a nod in return, and walked off. The truth was, he was feeling unsettled over the whole thing himself. He'd tried to speak reassuringly to Liz, but as he walked away, he wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure her, or himself.

**…..**

Don turned his head, trying to move it away from the pain. It was futile – the pain didn't seem to be coming from the outside, although the left side of his head felt a little more sore than the rest of it. No, this was a pounding pain, a pressure; it felt like the worst headache he'd ever had, multiplied by ten. A corner of his lip curled slightly at that last thought – even when he was in agony, Charlie rubbed off on him. Multiplied by ten…

His eyes flew open. Charlie. Something was wrong – something had happened… The light from a fixture hanging from the ceiling hit his pupils, sending stabbing twin barbs of pain through them, and he winced, groaned, and shut his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to keep them closed, but there was that feeling inside – had to open them, had to open…

He forced his lids apart, and they stayed that way this time, although he had to squint until they adjusted to the light. At first he had no idea where he was, but suddenly, it all came rushing back, with a shock. He was in the library, at Mark Vincent's house. Someone had been there behind him – must have hit him on the head…

He tried to push himself up with his good arm, but it seemed to be stuck. His wrist was cuffed to some iron grating on the fireplace, he realized, as he craned his neck to look. His feet were cuffed too. He must have been hit pretty hard; the cuffs looked like they were growing cotton candy. With a spiraling sense of dread, he carefully turned his aching head to take in the rest of the room, and the first thing he saw was – Charlie.

His brother lay a few feet away on his side, facing Don. Charlie's feet were bound, and his arms were behind him – Don couldn't see his wrists, but he was sure they were bound or cuffed, as well. He was clad in just his T-shirt and jeans – his tweed jacket lay crumpled a few feet away on the floor. His eyes were closed, and a thin red trail of blood had crept from the hairline near his temple and had coursed down his cheek. He was motionless, pale; he looked dead…

"Charlie." Don's voice came out raspy, and held more than a hint of panic. "Charlie."

There was no response, other than the quiet tick of clock on a shelf near the computer desk. It drew Don's eye. A little after six p.m. They'd gotten there a little before four-thirty, so he'd been out for nearly two hours. Now here they were, helpless on the floor – and their attacker was nowhere in sight. Mark Vincent was, though. Don could see him lying there, facing them. The head of his bed was slightly elevated, giving Vincent a line of sight, and his eyes were open. His face was expressionless, and Don couldn't quite tell if Vincent was watching him or not; it was hard to see the direction his eyes were tracking. He might be looking at Charlie, or maybe not. Was Mark Vincent – as improbable as it seemed – part of this? Had he lured them into a trap?

One thing was apparent. Don had been sure that Tuttle had been guilty of the electronic theft they had uncovered, but had accepted the fact that they couldn't get to him, had thought that the events that had sent them on the run to begin with were effectively over. He couldn't have been more wrong, he knew now – this was far from over, and again, his brother had been sucked into this mess with him. He stared at the limp form across the room, and suddenly was seized with irrational anger. "Not again," he whispered, between clenched teeth. He tensed and pulled against the iron grating with all his might, his face reddening with the effort, the cords on his neck standing out, and although the grating rattled, it seemed securely anchored in the masonry of the fireplace. Still, he pulled against it again and again, until he collapsed, panting with frustrated rage and exhaustion, his wrist aching and raw from the handcuffs. He was preparing to try once more, when he saw Charlie's eyelids flutter.

"Charlie?" '_Thank God,_' he said to himself, as he saw the eyelids blink, then tighten; then blink again. A soft moan escaped his brother. "Charlie, can you hear me?"

Charlie's eyes tracked toward him, and he mumbled something that Don interpreted as, "What happened?" At that moment, Don heard the noise of the front door, slamming.

Charlie still looked very out of it, and Don stared at him intently, willing him to concentrate. "Charlie, listen to me," he hissed. "We don't have much time. Charlie, no matter what, you can't tell them that no one else knows we're here, or that we're working on the case alone. If you do that, we're done – they'll get rid of us for sure. Do you understand me?"

Footsteps were approaching. Charlie's brow furrowed in pain and confusion, and for a moment, Don's heart sank. Then Charlie gave a slight nod, and closed his eyes. "Unnerstan -," he whispered, and he slumped and went still; apparently out again.

Don swallowed, and he closed his eyes and uttered a brief prayer. He heard the library door creak, and almost against his will, he opened his eyes and looked toward it. A figure stepped through the doorway, and Don looked straight into the eyes of Audrey Paris.

**…**

End, Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18: Promise Me

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 18: Promise Me**

**…**

Colby pulled up to the Craftsman, and felt a surge of relief at the sight of Charlie's Prius in the driveway. All the worry had been for nothing then; Don and Charlie were back. It wasn't until he'd gotten inside that he realized his error.

He poked his head through the doorway after his knock, and the door was almost wrenched out of his grasp. Alan had gone to open it, just as Colby pushed on it. "Colby!" Alan exclaimed. His greeting was hearty, but held a trace of anxiety. "What's going on? You ran out of here in such a hurry."

Colby looked around the room, which held at least three more people than he expected. The Idaho contingent had shown up; Harry and Doris Sackett, and Sheriff Sam Jarrett all looked at him expectantly. Amita did more than look; she rose to her feet and came forward, with a strained smile. "Have you heard from Don or Charlie?" she asked.

Colby looked at her blankly. "I thought they might be here," he said, his brow furrowed with confusion. "I thought I saw Charlie's car outside."

"You must be thinkin' of that little hybrid out there," interrupted Sam Jarrett. "That's our rental vehicle, I'm afraid."

Colby stared at him, then at Amita, then at Alan. "You haven't heard from them?"

"That would imply we've been sitting here, waiting for them to call," remarked Alan dryly. "We've a trifle more proactive than that. Amita and I have tried to call – oh, every fifteen minutes on the average, between the two of us."

Amita colored, and gestured vaguely at their guests. "Well, Doris, Harry and Sam_ did_ stop by to see them before they left." She looked at Colby, anxiously. "You haven't heard from them, either?"

"No," said Colby, softly. A pucker appeared between his brows. "I think I'm going to call David."

A fearful look crossed Alan's face. "Why? What's going on?"

"I don't know," said Colby. "Probably nothing, but -,"

"But what?" demanded Amita.

Colby sighed, and looked at the assembled group. "Aaron Shulman was shot in the head at the synagogue tonight."

Alan stared at him. "Rabbi Shulman's son? Charlie's doctor?"

Colby stared back at him. He'd forgotten about that. What if this incident was connected to Charlie, instead of Don? Of course, it might have no connection to either of them; LAPD's initial conjecture was that the shooting was random, perhaps part of a gang initiation.

"How is he?" Alan asked quietly.

"He's alive, for now. He's in surgery, at the hospital."

The Sacketts had been sitting quietly, politely on the sofa, but Doris' curiosity and concern apparently had gotten the better of her. "I don't understand," she said. "It's a terrible thing, but what does that man's shooting have to do with Don and Charlie?"

"We don't know," said Colby. "Maybe nothing. But there are a couple things that are bothersome. One is the fact that Aaron Shulman looks an awful lot like Don. He was at a synagogue that Don frequents, and it was night – it's possible it was a case of mistaken identity." He glanced uncomfortably at Alan, who had paled at the statement. "Or it could have nothing to do with Don at all – but it _is_ a little disturbing that we can't get in touch with them. I came here to see if they'd showed up, or if one of you had heard from them. I need to let David know that they're still not here. When was the last time any of you heard from either of them?"

Silence fell for a moment, and Amita and Alan exchanged glances. "I saw him this morning," offered Alan. He looked at Amita, "But you took him home at around noon, if I'm not mistaken."

Amita was wringing her hands nervously now, and she nodded. "I dropped him off here. We grabbed a sandwich, and he was sitting down to his computer as I headed back out to campus." Her eyes automatically went toward the dining room table, and Colby followed her gaze.

"The computer that's not here," he sighed. "So we can't get on it and see what he might have been working on, or for how long. Do you think he left with Don?"

Alan nodded slowly. "I would think so. Charlie's not allowed to drive yet, even though his car is gone. When I talked to Don on the phone before I left for work this morning, he did say something about stopping over here today. They must have gone somewhere together in Charlie's car."

"Was that the last time you spoke to him?" At Alan's nod, Colby sighed again, as if to dispel the heaviness that seemed to be settling in his chest. "Look, I'd better talk to David. Hold tight – I'll let you know what he says."

**….**

Don locked eyes with Audrey Paris, and for a moment, they just stared at each other. Then there was the chime of a doorbell, and Audrey started like a scared deer. For a moment, she tensed, looking wildly around the room, and then she set the big purse she was carrying on the floor, and pulled out a sleek nine-millimeter semi-automatic. Don had just time to think that it was a lot of gun to be hauling around in a purse, and she was gone, slipping out the door and down the hallway. His heart pounded, and he strained to hear, wondering who could be at the door in such a god-forsaken location. Maybe it was help.

No such luck. In fact, things went from bad to worse as voices sounded in the hall, and moments later, Audrey reappeared, with none other than Ralph Nardek behind her. Don had only seen him once, at LAPD headquarters being questioned, but it wasn't hard to remember the spiked hair and the glasses, with their small, thick rectangular frames. Nardek wore his geekiness like a fashion statement. He had an air about him that was both cocky and defensive at the same time; an attitude that said, 'I'm smart and I know it, and I'm trying just a little too hard to be cool.'

Charlie picked that moment to stir again, and moaned a little as his eyes fluttered open. Nardek looked down at him and then at Don, with an evil grin starting to his face. "Well, the amazing Eppes brothers, down for the count. The little lady managed to do what a dozen of Tuttle's best men couldn't. Tell me, what were you boys doing out here, anyway?"

Don stared back at him, silently, watching Charlie out of the corner of his eye. Charlie was moving slightly, wincing. His shoulders were bunched as if he were straining against whatever secured his wrists, and Don suspected that he'd just figured out that he was bound. He was lying on his side facing Don, and Nardek stood behind him. Nardek pursed his lips at Don's silence, and gave Charlie's shoulder a prod with his foot. "What do you say there, professor? Your brother's being unsociable."

Nardek walked around to Charlie's front, and Don's eyes narrowed. He'd thought of Nardek as bright, but no more than just a backroom computer hack for Tuttle. Surprisingly, the man possessed an obvious confidence – an attitude that said 'gangster' just as much as it said 'geek.' What was most disturbing, however, was his apparent lack of fear, and the meanness in his eyes. In fact, he looked as if he was relishing the situation. Clearly, he was more dangerous than Don had imagined. His gut tightened as Nardek strolled around and squatted in front of Charlie, still smiling.

"Professor Eppes, finally we meet. You know, I have to commend you – you did a nice job of hacking through my firewalls and into Tuttle's business accounts. No mean feat – I'm one of the best, which is, of course, why he hired me." Charlie said nothing. His eyes were open now, and he stared dully at the floor, refusing to make eye contact. Nardek continued, seemingly unperturbed, speaking in a light, conversational tone. "Why don't you tell me how you found this place? Got a line on Audrey's computer, didn't you? Tracking her transactions, maybe?" He waited, his smile dimming at Charlie's continued silence. When he spoke again, Don could hear anger in his tone. "Things will go a lot easier on both of you if you just let me know why you're here, and who else is in on the investigation."

He straightened abruptly and turned away from Charlie, and Don breathed a small sigh of relief. '_That's right, you bastard, leave him alone,' _he urged Nardek, mentally. _ ' Talk to me._'

The expression of anger on Nardek's face faded, and he smiled and shrugged. "Very well. To tell you the truth, I'd rather have it this way. You see, I brought a few tools of -," he paused, looking for a word, and finished with a malicious grin. "- persuasion." He turned and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Audrey asked anxiously.

Nardek shot her a dismissive glance. "Just out to my car. I'll be right back."

She shot an apprehensive look over her shoulder at Don, and then trotted after Nardek, out of the room.

**….**

Charlie lay there, staring at the floor until Nardek's and Audrey's footsteps faded down the hallway. The fact was; it hurt to look up; his head was pounding, and felt unbearably heavy. Not as heavy as his heart, though. He was well aware of what he'd done; this was his fault. He'd insisted on meeting Mark Vincent, and had dragged them both into a trap. It didn't matter that he'd tried to come alone, that Don had inserted himself into the deal and had insisted on coming along – in the end, Charlie had agreed. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, and the soft whoosh of Mark Vincent's breathing apparatus. Vincent was lying there, apparently staring at them from his bed. Or maybe not. Maybe he really _was_ comatose, and Audrey and Nardek had sent the messages as bait.

"Charlie." Don's voice floated into the silence, filled with concern. "Charlie."

Charlie finally raised his eyes. Don was regarding him from across the room. He had pulled himself to a sitting position, but Charlie could see that his good wrist was cuffed to the iron grating, and his ankles were cuffed together, rendering him incapable of much more movement. His casted arm lay in his lap, and Don was hunched over it slightly, as if to protect it.

"I'm sorry." The words came out raspy, and Charlie swallowed – both to clear his throat, and to fight back one of the waves of nausea that were repeatedly rising from his gut.

Don frowned at him. "Sorry for what?"

"For getting us – you – into this. You were right to be suspicious."

Don grimaced. "Not suspicious enough. I let my guard down." He was silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his expression was grave. "Charlie, do you remember what I said to you a little while ago? I was right; they're gonna want to know who else is in on the investigation. You can't tell them anything, you got it? I'm gonna try to make him focus on me – but no matter what they do to me, you can't tell them no one else knows. It doesn't look good, regardless, Buddy, but the longer we hold out, the better chance we have of escaping or of someone finding us. You can't let them know that no one else is in on this – and don't lie either, and tell them someone _does_ know what we're doing. As soon as they think they know what the situation is, Nardek will try to get rid of us. Just keep your mouth shut – promise me that, okay?"

Charlie felt bile rising, and he swallowed again. "Yeah," he said huskily. "I promise."

Leave it to Don to be heroic, he thought, miserably. He sat there, so strong, calmly planning, trying to outthink his opposition. Charlie, on the other hand, was petrified – not only for himself, but for Don – and when he was scared, he didn't think straight. What was the term Don had used, once before? '_Check out_.' Don had told him once that he 'checked out,' when he was under stress – a nice way of saying that he got a little loopy; sometimes downright dysfunctional. He had to get a grip, make sure that he didn't let Don down, yet again.

"I promise," he whispered, and closed his eyes.

**…..**

David frowned and looked at Liz, who stood next to him in the hospital hallway. He spoke into the phone. "Okay, thanks for letting me know. I think it's time I called Wright, and recommend that we get an APB out. Why don't you head over to Don's apartment? We'll need to check it out."

He snapped the phone shut. "That was Colby. Don and Charlie haven't shown up yet, and no one's been able to get in touch with them. The last time anyone talked to Don was this morning, and the last time anyone saw Charlie was at noon. Colby thinks they might be together in Charlie's car; the Prius is missing, and Charlie can't drive yet. And Don's SUV is at the Craftsman." He flipped his phone open again. "I'm going to call Wright – I think we need to treat their absence as connected to this incident, somehow."

Nikki had come striding up as he spoke. "Aaron Shulman made it out of surgery," she said. "It's still touch and go, but they got the bullet out. The doc says the next 24 to 48 hours will be critical."

"Well," sighed Liz, "that's something, anyway."

David had stepped away, and was speaking into his phone. "Yeah, okay. I'll call LAPD to get out a bulletin; we might be able to set up a GPS trace on Charlie's car if he has an anti-theft locator. We'll trace Don's phone - Charlie's is still at his house."

Nikki looked at Liz. "I got a feelin' of deja-vu, here. If they_ are_ gone, how much you wanna bet Tuttle's involved?"

**….**

Ralph Nardek shot an assessing glance at Audrey as she slunk along beside him on the way out to his car. He hadn't seen her in a while; she looked bad. Thin, disheveled, with a suspicious brightness in her eyes that said she was high on something. She was wearing baggy sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt, and on her slight form, they made her look like a teenager. He had seen a cab winding down the road as he had driven up to her house, so she apparently had gotten there moments ahead of him. "Any problems getting rid of the car?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. I did it just like you said, wiped everything down, and drove it downtown to some godforsaken slum and left it with the keys in it. I caught a cab to El Mercado mall – God knows, no one _I_ know would be there, had a coffee, then got a cab home."

"You left everything with it?"

She nodded and ticked off a list on twitching fingers. "The GPS chip you had me take out of the professor's computer, Don Eppes' gun, and his cell phone. The professor didn't have a phone – I checked his pockets and checked the foyer, where I knocked him out, in case it fell out of his pocket." They had reached Nardek's car, and she looked at him curiously as he opened the trunk and pulled out a duffle bag. "What's that?"

"A few tools of the trade – some stuff Derek Mace had stashed at Tuttle's, before he went to prison," he said offhandedly, but inside he felt an illicit thrill. The fact was, Tuttle had never taken him seriously, had treated him like an inconsequential pencil-pusher, when the reality was that Nardek was the brains of the operation. Tuttle had assumed he wasn't tough, wasn't mean, just because he was good on a computer. To J. Everett Tuttle, he was just a two bit player. It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Because Tuttle didn't think of him as an enforcer, tough enough to do the dirty work, he never got those kinds of jobs, so he never got a chance to prove himself. Well, he'd watched Mace interrogate a couple of people, and not only had it not bothered him, he'd been fascinated by it, and couldn't wait to try it himself, experience the sense of ultimate power, of control – one could whatever he wanted to the victim, inflict pain, watch him squirm…

Audrey was talking again, he realized with a start, as he hefted the bag and slammed the trunk, and they headed back toward the house. She was a mess, had deteriorated into an obvious meth-head, and he could smell alcohol, too. Even on a bad day, she still looked pretty good, though. Audrey had always been hot, he reflected, as they stepped back through the front door. Maybe after he was done with the Eppes and she recognized his power, his new stature, he might get into her pants. For just a moment, he thought of Tuttle, and his bravado wavered. He wondered briefly if he would be so bold tonight if Tuttle had been in town – his boss had already left for the islands. Nardek was supposed to be on a flight the next day, to follow him – that wouldn't be happening now.

He snorted softly, and his thoughts turned back to Audrey. Forget the 'might.' He _would_ get in her pants – he would just take her. That would be the icing on the cake. He'd screw J. Everett Tuttle out of his money, screw him by framing him for the Eppes brothers' murders, and screw his mistress. All in one night. Ralph Nardek chuckled softly to himself. Oh, yeah, it was going to be one hell of an evening. First he'd spend a few minutes hacking into the professor's computer, and he'd reward himself by getting off on a little torture – and he knew exactly which brother he was going to target; partly because it would make the other brother squirm, and partly because he hated the bastard. He stepped in through the library door with his bag of pain, and smiled.

**...**

End, Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19: Hidden Talents

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 19: Hidden Talents**

**…**

Don tensed as Ralph Nardek stepped through the library door, bearing a large duffel bag. Audrey slunk in after him, her eyes huge with anticipation. That in itself was a bad sign.

Nardek walked around Charlie to a position between them, unzipped the bag, and then dumped the contents on the floor, tossing the bag away with a flourish. He stood with his back to Charlie, facing Don, and smiled. "Let's see, what kinds of toys do we have here?" He stooped, and pawed at them, separating them. Don could see brass knuckles, a small club… His gut tightened as Nardek selected something and held it up to examine it, then pushed a button. A knife, sharp as a razor flicked out, with a soft 'snick.' Switchblade. Nardek turned it to and fro in the light, admiring the mirror finish of the blade, and spoke, without taking his eyes off the knife. "Of course, you could make this unnecessary, gentlemen. One of you just needs to tell me who, if anyone, knows that you're here, or that you're even running an investigation, and I can put all my toys away."

He lowered the knife, and looked at Don. "You started all this months ago by digging into Tuttle's doings on you own, without the Bureau knowing. Is that what you're doing this time, agent? Running your own investigation again? Or is the Bureau in on it?" He waited for an answer, and when none came, he stood. "Or maybe…," he turned and walked over to Charlie, "… it was your brother, here. Maybe _he_ was doing the digging." He bent down, grabbed Charlie's dark curls, and pulled, forcing Charlie to look up at him. "Is that it, professor? You doing a little snooping of your own, a little search that took you into Audrey's files? Decided you should bring big brother with you to check things out?" He smiled, but his eyes were cold. "You'll tell me – and before this is over, you'll also get on your computer and show me what you've got."

Charlie looked up at him, finally, a hint of defiance in his face. His voice was low and husky with loathing. "Screw you."

"You're such a smart ass, aren't you, Eppes? You think you're better than me? Screw _you_."

Don's heart had begun a slow steady pound as Nardek had walked over to Charlie, and at his last words, had begun hammering in earnest. Nardek had dropped the light banter, and the light in his eyes had turned ugly. Don had to get him away from Charlie, get him refocused in his direction. "Let him be, Nardek. He doesn't know anything."

Nardek rose abruptly and spun to face Don, his expression contorted. Audrey, who had been standing there taking in the scene, blinked, obviously taken aback at his expression, and backed away a step.

"Bullshit!" snarled Nardek, glaring at Don. He turned suddenly and strode over to the desk and flipped open a laptop – it was Charlie's. He turned it on and the Cal Sci university logo came up on the screen; Charlie obviously had it set as his home page. A cursor blinked in a space at the bottom, begging for a password, but Nardek ignored it. He turned back to Don, and gestured at the screen. "If he knows nothing, why is he here, with his laptop, no less? You don't fool me, agent – there's no way you would have dragged him out here if he wasn't involved. And this isn't your computer – it's his." He turned toward Charlie, eyes narrowed. "I could try and hack into this, but I really don't want to spend the time. What's the password, Eppes?"

Charlie said nothing; he kept his lips shut and his eyes on the floor – keeping quiet, just as he promised he would. He was white, though, and as stiff as a board – he looked terrified, and Don didn't blame him. It had only been weeks since Charlie had nearly been beaten to death, and had lost the vision his right eye as a result. Nardek moved back toward him, perhaps sensing his fear, and as he moved, he retracted the switchblade, dropped it, and snatched up a set of brass knuckles from the floor. He slid them over his fingers and knelt next to Charlie's prone form, holding his armored hand so that Charlie could see it. "The fact is," said Nardek softly, a smile returning to his lips, "I don't mind if you make me force it out of you. I've been waiting a long time for this, you little bastard." With that, he drew back his arm suddenly, and rammed his fist into Charlie's unprotected gut.

"Stop!" The word exploded out of Don, and he desperately tried to regain his composure. Charlie had doubled up on the floor, his eyes shut tight, gasping. "Nardek, listen to me."

Nardek turned; a malicious smile on his face. "Damn, that felt good. Listen to what,  
Eppes? Look at you – you can't stand this, can you? The only thing better than making him pay is making you watch." He turned abruptly back to Audrey and jerked his head. "Come here."

She sidled toward him, apparently both fascinated and repulsed by a Ralph Nardek she had never seen before. "What?"

Nardek pushed Charlie onto his back, where he lay awkwardly – with his hands tied behind him, he couldn't lie flat. Instead, he was forced to arch his back; it left the entire front of his torso exposed. He was still panting, trying to breathe through the pain; Don could see his ribcage expanding and contracting through his T-shirt. Nardek gestured towards Charlie's legs. "Hold his feet, so he can't flip on me."

Audrey's mouth opened in protest, but she caught the look on Nardek's face and apparently thought better of it. She knelt at Charlie's feet and grabbed his tied ankles, leaning on them hard, as Nardek grasped Charlie's shoulder with his left hand. "You want to play games, professor?" he murmured, and without preamble, smashed his armored hand into Charlie's ribs with a sick-sounding crack.

A strangled half-cry, half-grunt of pain exploded from Charlie, and he writhed so hard that Audrey lost her grip. Don was twisting himself, desperately yanking on the handcuff attached to the metal grating. The grating was a bit loose and it rattled and ground against the stone, but any movement in the structure generated only false hope; it held firm. Audrey repositioned herself, this time sitting on Charlie's ankles to hold him in place. Nardek raised his arm for another blow, and Don prayed, '_Not his good eye – for God's sake, not his eye…,' _

**….**

Liz hurried into the conference room at the FBI offices, interrupting the quiet conversation between David Sinclair and Assistant Director Wright. Colby and Nikki trailed behind her and stood in the doorway, listening. "LAPD found Charlie's Prius," said Liz, breathlessly, her face grim. "It was down in East L.A. – only a couple of blocks from the chop shop where we found Don's vehicle the first time they vanished. Don's cell phone and service weapon were in it. LAPD is taking the car to their crime lab to inspect it."

"His Glock – that's not good," said Colby, with a frown. "I don't see Don parting with his gun voluntarily under any circumstances."

"Still, it's odd," mused Nikki, "that the car would be left there, in the same neighborhood as the first time. Is it just coincidence, or did Don and Charlie leave it there purposely – trying to tell us something? And Don does have a backup piece. Maybe he didn't want to take his issued weapon with him."

David shook his head. "Why not? Wouldn't you think he would take them both, if he could?"

An odd look crossed Nikki's face. "Unless he didn't want to take a gun that could be traced to him," she said slowly.

"That would imply a plan to use it," countered Wright. "Are you saying that you think Don might be considering vigilante or criminal action?"

"No way," said Colby, firmly. "Even if he ever considered something like that, there would be no way he would drag Charlie with him to do it."

"Yeah," conceded Nikki, "I guess that doesn't make sense. What if they were on the run again, though, got new identities like last time, but this time decided to fly somewhere? He couldn't bring a gun on the plane if he wasn't traveling as a law enforcement officer. I guess what I'm trying to say is there might be some good reason that he left it behind; we can't just assume that it was taken from him."

"The one thing they didn't find was a laptop," said Liz. "I asked them about that specifically, because Amita told us it wasn't at the Craftsman."

The group looked at each other. "So if Charlie really is with him, then he took his laptop," said David. "We need to get a trace on that laptop's GPS chip."

"I have LAPD already working on that," replied Liz. "They'll call me as soon as they know."

David Sinclair looked at Wright. "I'm gonna call in someone else, if it's okay with you. Sheriff Sam Jarrett is in town – he's the guy who found the Eppes brothers in Idaho Falls. If they did run on their own accord, maybe he can help shed some light on how to find them."

Wright nodded. "Go ahead. We can use the extra help."

**…**

Ralph Nardek sat back on his heels and wiped his brow, and Audrey, discerning correctly that he was finished, rose from her perch on Charlie's lower legs. Don found himself exhaling; he hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath during Nardek's assault. After the first punch, the man had seemed to go into a frenzy, pounding Charlie's torso and abdomen as hard as he could, and Don could only watch helplessly, with a rising mixture of nausea and panic. Fortunately, Nardek had kept his blows away from Charlie's head, which made sense if Nardek wanted him to talk – one blow from the brass knuckles would have been enough to knock him out again. Even so, Charlie had averted his head with his good eye toward the floor, obviously trying to keep it away from any possible trauma. That meant that his face was turned away from Don, but as the blows ceased and the weight on his legs was removed, Charlie collapsed back on his side, facing his brother.

His face was a study in pain; his eyes were shut, and he was gasping for air, exhaling with a soft wheeze that was punctuated with a choking sound between each round. Nardek looked down at him, with satisfaction. "Not feeling quite so smart now, are you, professor?" He turned his head, and regard Don. "How about you, agent? You want to stop your brother's misery? All you have to do is tell me who's in on this investigation."

Don stared back at him, trying to keep his face impassive. Behind Nardek, Charlie opened his eyes just a bit, and although his face was contorted with pain and he was still wheezing, he shook his head slightly. Don read the silent message. '_Don't talk._'

Don swallowed and stayed silent, but his heart sank as Nardek smiled. "No? What a bastard you are, Eppes, just sitting there and letting your brother take it. Of course, maybe you don't like him any more than I do – or you're a selfish sonofabitch, and you're willing to sit back with your mouth shut, as long as I don't involve you." Nardek rose to his feet. "Well, that suits me just fine, because I'm thoroughly enjoying this."

So was Audrey, apparently. She seemed to have decided she liked this side of Ralph. During Charlie's beating she had watched with round eyes, and now she wandered over to the pile of implements and licked her lips. "What's next?"

Nardek smirked as he moved beside her, and studied the collection strewn on the floor.

**…**

Amita sat on the concrete bench facing the koi pond and tried to sort through her feelings. She hadn't paused to put on a sweater before she ventured outdoors, and now she shivered in the late night - but she wasn't convinced she was shivering from the brisk night air.

The evening had gone from bad to worse. Charlie's Prius and Don's gun had been found; but no laptop, and no actual Eppes brothers. David had come to the house and asked Sam Jarrett for his help. The sheriff was no backwoods enforcer - he had done his time as a big city cop. He was smart, levelheaded, and had seen through Don's smokescreen in Idaho last summer. The FBI agent seemed anxious for Jarrett's cooperation. Sam, who knew that Tuttle had escaped prosecution and was still on the loose, was concerned enough to deputize Harry on the spot, with David and Alan acting as witnesses. Harry and Doris would head back to Idaho, where Harry would help the only other deputy keep the peace until Sam returned.

During David's visit, he had explained that the car had been found in almost the same place that they had left Don's SUV the first time they ran. There was some speculation that Don and Charlie had chosen to go underground, again. Amita had run upstairs and fired up her own laptop. The cloaking program she had designed for Charlie last summer was still on both of their computers. She was sure he would get a message to her if he could.

As of yet, he hadn't...and she was troubled.

She was troubled by the Charlie she had come to know in the last several weeks. Yes, adjusting to his vision impairment must have been very difficult for him; _but drugs_? Despite the staunch support of her fiancé to anyone who would listen, she had been surprised and not a little disgusted that he had turned to pharmaceutical release when she was right there with him all along. She was living in his house, sleeping in his bed, putting up with what turned out to be his drug abuse symptoms...she was planning their wedding. Still, he had chosen not to lean on her, confide in her. He had once been as repulsed by addiction as she was; how could he have fallen into that trap so easily? As disturbing as that was, what was more troubling was the fact that he no longer confided in her – about the drugs, about what he'd been doing on his laptop lately…

She sighed. Perhaps Don had been right, last summer. Maybe Charlie resented her for involving Colby and Assistant Director Wright. He had never said so, and at first, had been so loving when they finally got to see each other again. But turning away from her, embracing drugs, not contacting her now - what else could it all mean? Maybe Charlie didn't even know himself that he no longer trusted her; at least, not until he was put into the position of having to, again.

Of course, the first time he had disappeared, he had contacted her through the mail. Maybe that would happen again...but Amita couldn't see how that would work. She no longer kept her apartment, so her mailing addresses were the same as his: the Craftsman, and CalSci. Certainly both of those locations would be watched. However, with both of their laptops still protected from prying eyes, there was no reason not to contact her via computer. She had even checked her _Primacy_ account, but there was nothing.

She tried to convince herself that Charlie and Don had not left of their own accord - even though she suspected that Charlie had been pursuing Tuttle electronically again. Then, just before he left with Sam, David had gotten a call from Liz. The GPS chip from Charlie's laptop had been traced...to LAPD's own CSI garage. The chip had been removed from the computer, and was found under the passenger seat of the Prius. The news had silenced everyone. Obviously, then, Don and Charlie had done it again. Don possessed the knowledge to know that the GPS chip would be traced - and Charlie possessed the knowledge required to remove the chip from his laptop. He was out there, untraceable, with his computer and his brother.

Apparently, that was all he needed.

**...**

End, Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20: Twisting in the Wind

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 20: Twisting in the Wind**

**…**

Don twisted his body until he could push his bound feet against the brick surrounding the fireplace. He couldn't get the leverage he wanted, but he had to try. Nardek, thank God, had finally given up on making Charlie talk, although he had spent most of the night beating his brother into unconsciousness first. Audrey had even come up with a few ideas of her own; especially after she started smoking something – meth, judging by her dilated pupils and increased pacing, not to mention excited babbling.

At least Nardek had nixed some of her more outlandish suggestions. She had wanted to start cutting off Charlie's fingers, had even grabbed the switchblade and started to move toward Charlie's hands. Don had almost suffered heart failure himself, when she did that. He had been about to tell Charlie to forget his earlier instructions, to go ahead and tell Nardek what he wanted to hear - but Nardek had rolled his eyes and grabbed Audrey's shaking hands, stopping her himself. "How can he type with no fingers, bitch?"

Audrey's lower lip had extended in a pout as she jerked her hand back. "One of us can use his computer," she had started, but Nardek rose to his feet and kicked almost casually at Charlie's limp form. "He's unconscious anyway," he had pointed out. Not long after that, the two of them had left the three men, and Don had heard steps on the stairs. He had no idea when they would be back - although other noises he heard pretty much told him what they were doing. He had to find a way to pull this fireplace grill out of the brick facade, just far enough for him to slip the cuffs off, and he had to do it soon.

He pushed, pulled, and yanked so hard that he almost broke his other wrist. Who knew that fuzzy pink cuffs were so much like the real thing? Don grimaced, lowered his legs back to the floor for a moment and lay panting. He looked at Charlie again, but his brother was quiet and unmoving; still unconscious. Not only had Nardek used brass knuckles on the professor - he had kicked him repeatedly. Worse, he had grabbed fistfuls of hair and slammed Charlie's head into the wooden floor; that couldn't bode well for either of his eyes. Charlie had whimpered but Don had bellowed so loudly that he soon found himself on the receiving end of Nardek's attention. As long as it kept the man distracted from his brother, though, Don was all right with that. When a particularly vicious fireplace poker to the gut caused him to gray out for a moment, Don was dismayed to float back into awareness only to find that a bored Nardek had returned to Charlie. As long as he lived, Don knew he would never forget the interminable night, and the myriad ways Tuttle's geek had found to torture his brother.

His gaze wandered to Mark Vincent in his bed - who might or might not have been staring back at him. Don found himself feeling sorry for the guy. Early the evening before, when Nardek was just getting started on Charlie, Audrey had wandered to the bed for a moment. She had looked at her brother dispassionately while she made a phone call, cancelling all of his nursing care. "More trouble than he's worth," she had muttered as she ended the call and turned back toward Nardek. "We'll have to do something with this lump of shit, too." She had frowned at the phone before tossing it onto the desk. "Remind me to call those stupid research people later...maybe there's an answering machine or something. We don't need _them_ showing up tomorrow!"

Don ruminated while he rested. Obviously, Vincent was not part of this. Now that she couldn't use him anymore to launder money, Audrey didn't seem to care about him at all. As far as Don knew, Mark hadn't been fed, turned...his bed was still sitting askew from Don's fall the night before. There was a dangerously full catheter bag hooked low on the bed frame. It was obvious that Mark could communicate – the few sentences he had typed on the computer before Don had been knocked out made that obvious.

Feeling a little like an idiot, Don decided to speak to him. He shifted a little, wincing at the pain in his abdomen; the fireplace poker had left its mark. "Well, this is a mess." He watched, stunned, while Mark Vincent slowly blinked once. Was that a signal for "yes", or just a coincidence? "Do you have a gun I can borrow?" Don asked. Vincent blinked twice. "Holy hell," Don muttered. "I'm trussed up like a pig, Charlie's unconscious, and you're pretty well trapped, too." One blink. "Shit," Don breathed. _Incredible._ Suddenly, Mark Vincent became more than a lump in a hospital bed. In Don's perception, he became both a remarkable human being - and Audrey's first victim. "I'll get us all out of this," Don promised, twisting back toward the hearth. He lifted his feet to the brick. "I swear to God, I'll find a way."

Don wasn't facing Vincent now, so he didn't see the single blink - or the single tear that rolled down Mark's face.

**...**

Sam Jarrett stood in the FBI bullpen, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over his chest. It had been a short night - a few hours of sleep on Colby's couch. The team had reassembled in the bullpen for an early meeting with their Assistant Director. There had been no new developments during the night. "Well," he drawled, "I'll admit it looks like they ran."

Phillip Wright had adopted a similar stance, and mirrored Jarrett from a few feet away. "But you don't think so," he supplied.

Jarrett glanced at David, the third point of their triangle, then shook his head as he looked back to Wright. "Nope. No sir, I do not."

Wright sighed, and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I'm in a difficult position here. The evidence points toward voluntary action."

David agreed, ticking off items on his fingers. "Finding the car so close to where we found the SUV the first time they ran. Charlie's computer GPS and Don's Glock in the car."

"What about Tuttle?" Jarrett raised an eyebrow, questioningly.

Wright shrugged. "What about him? He was cleared – of course, we think he was guilty as hell, but Jim Montague and Derek Mace took the fall for him. One of our people checked though – it turns out that Tuttle took off two days ago for the Caribbean islands – it doesn't look as though he was involved."

"It sounds too convenient to me," muttered Jarrett. "What about that woman - Audrey?"

"Totally off the radar," answered David. "After she was suspended from practicing law, she took her brother out of his nursing home and disappeared. Didn't even wait for official disbarment. Robin said she didn't show up at her own hearing, and mail from the California Bar is coming back unopened."

Jarrett sighed. "Well, you know both of them better than I do. It sure sounds to me like last time though – and that in itself makes me suspicious. If Don Eppes wanted them to disappear, why would he leave Charlie's car in nearly the same spot as before? You'd think he'd hide it somewhere else, to give them more of a head start."

"Maybe we should wait and see if Charlie contacts Amita, like he did last time," suggested Wright. "After all, they haven't even been gone twenty-four hours, yet."

David was nodding in agreement when Colby left his desk, where he, Liz and Nikki had been waiting for the three men to come to an agreement. He strode past the other two agents and thrust himself into the conversation. "They're not _gone_, they're _missing_," he announced boldly. "I agree with Sam," he announced. "I don't think they ran. Don wouldn't put Charlie at risk like that again. The Whiz Kid was seriously injured just weeks ago; hell, he could have easily been the one to go into that vat of acid! You know how guilty Don feels about Charlie's eyesight...even if Don decided to take off again; he'd never take Charlie with him."

David looked at Colby impassively. "I don't recall requesting your opinion," he said, his tone icy. "Anyway, it's apparent that Don let Charlie keep investigating. Amita said that Charlie's been working on something."

"And that's another thing." Colby rushed on, ignoring David's snarkiness and speaking over the last part of Sinclair's statement. "Whatever Charlie was chewing on must've been harmless; Don would have put a stop to it, otherwise."

David smirked. "Charlie's certainly got a mind of his own," he started sarcastically. "I, for one, have seen him stand up for himself against Don more than once. Perhaps you recall when Charlie lost his clearance?" His lips twisted in a joyless half-smile. "You remember - it wasn't long after your Chinese spy incident."

Colby paled, stunned, but stood his ground. "Both Alan and Amita said that Charlie hasn't been himself. Alan said that Charlie's been having some issues with his medication - do _you_ remember _that_?" Both his voice and his expression issued a challenge.

Sam didn't know what was going on between the two agents, but he decided to interrupt whatever it was. "That's true...and another reason Don wouldn't take his brother on the run right now, doncha think?"

A.D. Wright had been switching his attention from David to Colby as if he were at a tennis match. He didn't know what was going on, either - but there was obviously an issue with the two partners, and he couldn't allow it to compromise the investigation. He spoke sharply in his best "boss" voice, the one that brooked no argument. "Sinclair. Take Agents Warner and Betancourt, and work this from the voluntary angle. Re-interview everyone: Alan Eppes, Dr. Ramanujan, Counselor Brooks. Take Brooks to Don's apartment; have her check for anything that's out of order. Send Betancourt to see what she can get from her LAPD contacts." He turned toward Colby. "Agent Granger, you and Officer Jarrett, run on your instincts. Follow your gut." He glanced sternly at all three men, in turn. "_Anybody_ gets _anything_ solid; you let us all know about it. Agreed?"

Granger and Sinclair were both studying their feet by now. "Yes, sir," they both mumbled.

Jarrett lifted an eyebrow and shrugged at Wright, then turned to the stocky young man beside him. "Well, then, come on, boy," he said, pushing Colby in front of him as he began to walk away. "Let me show you how _real_ police work is done."

**... **

Charlie was choking.

He hadn't really regained consciousness yet, just roused enough to start throwing up - and now he was choking on his own vomit.

Don kept yelling his brother's name, not caring if Audrey and Ralph Nardek heard the commotion. In fact, he hoped they did; surely they wouldn't let Charlie die before they got the information they wanted. But Charlie's gagging just got worse as he flopped bonelessly onto his back - the worst position in which he could possibly be. Don had stopped pulling on the fireplace grate when he had first heard Charlie's distress, and now he watched in horror: his brother was turning blue. Audrey and Nardek had left the lights on when they left the room; in the artificial light, he could clearly see the blue tint around Charlie's mouth.

"NO!" he yelled, frantically pulling at the grate, almost sobbing in his terror. "CHARLIE! NO! NO!" The choking sound stopped, and the silence was ominous; Don knew that it meant that Charlie had stopped breathing. He was suffocating and drowning in his own vomit. Don caught his breath. "God, no, no, no, no, no," he moaned, and he poured all of his terrified energy into one final pull against the grate, one final push of his feet against the hearth.

He felt something give. Startled, he looked back at the grate, and saw that the metal bars were slightly bent. "Please, God," he begged, and readied himself for another assault.

This time, two things gave: the fireplace grate, and something inside him. A white-hot agony spread through his abdomen and he literally saw stars. Automatically, he curled around his middle, groaning, fighting his own unconsciousness. It took a moment for his vision to clear. When it did, his stomach was still burning - and his arms were wrapped around it. _Both_ of his arms. He may have given himself a hernia in the process, but he had done it. He had dislodged the fireplace grate and freed himself.

When he finally figured it out, he tried to stand. The pain in his midsection combined with his bound feet to send him crashing to the floor. He cried out when he landed on his already-broken arm, but he ignored the spike of pain; he had landed almost close enough to Charlie to touch him. If he could crawl just a few feet, he could use a shoulder to nudge his brother onto his side.

"I'm coming," he gasped, wincing as he dragged himself a few inches. "Hang on, Buddy. I'm coming."

**...**

Robin walked slowly through the eerily quiet apartment. David had already been through Don's place once, but he half-heartedly poked through a pile of mail on the breakfast bar and gave Robin her space. Nikki was at LAPD, and Liz was back at the Craftsman, re-interviewing Alan and Amita. Occasionally, Robin would trail a finger across the surface of something; the framed photo of Don's Quantico class, taken at his graduation...the light jacket thrown casually over the back of the couch. She was silent as sharp eyes looked for anything that was different. She had spent the night here less than 36 hours before.

She reached the master bedroom and stood in the doorway, her gaze lingering on the bed, and remembered that night. Had Don seemed distracted, worried? She shook her head slightly, frowning, as she let her gaze take in the rest of the room. On the contrary, Don had been quite happy...slightly rambunctious, even. He expected to be given clearance to drive at his doctor's appointment the next day. For the first time since his temporary paralysis, he had attempted to twist his body into some rather interesting positions. She blushed, even though David was still in the kitchen. The blush of embarrassment morphed into a fiery anger before she knew what was happening. One second she was lost in intimate memories, and the next, she was pounding her fists into the chest of drawers that stood just inside the door.

How dare he? How could he act as if nothing was wrong, as if everything was getting better, and then just disappear - _again_! She had found nothing amiss during her tour of the apartment; Don had obviously left under his own power, without leaving so much as a note. She had been understanding and supportive the first time. She had been helpful, breaking the case wide open with her own research. This time, she was feeling a little less generous.

This time, she was pissed.

**...**

Don managed to roll Charlie back onto his side. Don had hissed when he tried to push his brother - he may have re-fractured his arm when he fell. Finally he lifted Charlie just enough that he could push a shoulder into his brother's back. Once Charlie was on his side, vomit began to run out of his mouth. Without hesitation, Don reached around with his left hand, broken handcuff dangling, and stuck his finger into the mess. He pried open Charlie's mouth and swept chunks of vomit clear. He was about to roll Charlie onto his back again, so he could start CPR, when he heard a gurgle: Charlie was trying to breathe on his own. Flinching at the pain, Don started to pound on Charlie's back with his casted arm. Soon Charlie was coughing and sputtering, alternately spitting out vomit and dragging in huge lungfuls of air.

"You're okay," Don soothed, pausing to wipe his left hand on Charlie's sweater before he moved to smooth his brother's sweaty curls. "I've gotcha. You're okay. You're okay."

Charlie shuddered, now fully conscious again. "Don?" he whispered.

Don's heart was still pounding in fear. He lowered his head to rest on Charlie's shoulder for a moment before he answered. Charlie coughed. "Don?" he asked again.

Don lifted his head and sighed. "Yeah, Buddy. I'm here. Just rest. You're okay."

Charlie's breathing was labored, obviously painful. "You...you're free?"

Don closed his eyes against the fire in his gut and swallowed; the last thing they needed was for _him_ to start throwing up too. He let his hand slip from Charlie's hair and wrapped his arm around his midsection. "Kind-of," he finally answered. "My ankles are still cuffed; I can't move very well." His tone was apologetic as he lifted his eyes to look at the desk in the corner. "Bitch took her phone," he muttered. "Great."

Charlie took another shuddering breath. "...mputer," he half-moaned. "Mark." He coughed again, and Don tried to fill in the blanks.

"Your laptop is gone," he said. "Nardek took it with him."

"Mark," Charlie repeated. A third time. "Mark."

Don glanced toward Vincent. It looked like various cables were still connecting the young man to the laptop on his overbed table, but just barely. His bed was out of position, shoved to the side during Don's earlier fall. Vincent stared back at Don...and blinked.

Don thought aloud. "You think Vincent can contact somebody else, the same way he managed to get in touch with you."

"Yessss," Charlie hissed, his voice catching at the end. He lowered his head to rest on the floor. "Hurts..."

The single syllable was enough to start Don crawling across the floor. He didn't know if Mark Vincent could help them, and every inch was agony - but Don would be damned if he would just like around like a slug and do nothing. Charlie's breathing was compromised; Don remembered Nardek's kicks and brass knuckled-punches, and worried that Charlie had broken ribs; he could have a punctured lung - or worse. Every time Don looked toward Vincent, the paralyzed man was staring at him impassively, and Don wondered if his mission was pointless. Still, he could hear Charlie's labored breathing behind him; even if Vincent couldn't help them, Don reasoned, he could e-mail someone himself. Colby, or David.

He stopped halfway to the bed and groaned quietly into his casted arm. Between the throbbing below the cast and the ever-present fire in his belly, Don was getting a little woozy. Charlie moaned behind him in a half-gasp, half-cough, and Don was spurred into movement again. He kept crawling once he reached the bed; he needed to get to the other side, so he could shove the bed back into position. He allowed himself a few seconds of rest when he reached his destination, hoping that his head would clear. Unfortunately, though, as he struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, he grew even more light-headed. With his good hand he clutched the bottom rail of the hospital bed and inched himself toward a kneeling position.

He only made it three-quarters of the way. As soon as Don began to lengthen his torso, the pain inside him exploded. He cried out, slumping into the bed. He never realized, as he lost consciousness and slithered into a heap on the floor, that his body weight had accomplished the goal: the bed moved back into its original position, and Mark Vincent found himself staring at his computer screen once more.

**...**

End, Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21: Call For Help

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 21: Call For Help**

**…**

Trina Watson felt her mouth drop open slightly as she studied the computer screen in front of her. Was this for real, or some kind of sick joke? She read the e-mail again:

_Trina I hope this is you my sister had __your email please i hope this is you sister on drugs in trouble need help now two others captive here with me call police I am at 10 Mountainview drive in Glendora in LA help me please need u _

_Mark (u called me 55)_

Trina's breaths were rapid and shallow. Fifty-five was the number of Mark Vincent's football jersey in college at Texas A&M, before he was hurt. Trina had been raised in a houseful of men - her father and six brothers. She had been watching football all of her life. A Texas native, she was more than familiar with Mark Vincent when he became one of her patients. At first she felt sorry for him; she had quickly become convinced that there was something viable trapped inside the shell. His sister, even other nurses, had laughed at and ridiculed her. But soon, Trina was sure she saw a flash of recognition in his eyes when she came back from a few days off. She was aware of the research being done on brain injuries, and she had hoped something could be developed to help Mark. She had even written a few researchers about him; she was devastated when his sister had moved him from the extended care facility in San Francisco, where she worked. She had always treated him as if he were "normal"; talking to him about current events, football; her own life. She called him "55."

Who the hell else would know that?

She looked again at the time stamp on the e-mail: almost 10 minutes ago. She hesitated, then clicked the "reply" button. _Mark?_

In seconds, she received a reply: _still here help pls_

She swallowed, clicked reply again: _What is the name of my dog?  
_  
The wait for a reply seemed interminable, but it arrived in less than thirty seconds: _u call him bear 4 coach bryant bear likes bananas_

Trina gasped, started to bring her hand to her mouth, but snagged the cell phone off the desk instead. She rapidly punched in some numbers and brought the phone to her ear.  
_  
"9-1-1. What is your emergency?"_

**...**

Liz Warner was not unsympathetic. She genuinely like both Alan Eppes and Amita Ramanujan; it wasn't as if she _enjoyed_ causing them pain. Yet she had been an agent long enough to understand how important a thorough investigation in the early hours of a case could be.

She wrapped her hands around the mug of coffee Alan had given her and threw a question into the middle of the kitchen table, to see who picked it up. "Charlie has developed a drug problem since his injury?"

Significantly, Amita remained silent - but Alan sat up straighter in his chair and glared at her. "It's not like he's become a junkie!"

Liz pressed gently. "But there have been issues."

Alan glanced at Amita. Still silent, she stared at the tabletop and ignored them both. He sighed again, returning his attention to Liz. "He hasn't been himself," he finally admitted. "Short-tempered, a little shaky sometimes. But he's had a lot to adjust to..."

His obvious sadness almost convinced Liz to stop. Almost - but not quite. Still, she tried to couch her words carefully. She twisted the mug in her hands. "I'm just wondering," she said. "I know Don. If he saw Charlie struggling with an addiction... I'm just saying, it all came about because of the injuries Charlie received when they were on the run together last summer. Don would feel a certain responsibility to help his brother. Don's still on medical leave. Maybe when he got clearance to drive again, he took Charlie somewhere."

"You mean like a rehab?" questioned Alan. He frowned and shook his head. "I don't think so," he started, but Amita's voice suddenly interrupted.

"She could have a point," she said in a near-whisper, still looking at the tabletop.

Alan looked flummoxed for a moment, then reached out and took Amita's hand. "Sweetheart? Is there something you know?"

She turned her head and raised eyes shining with unshed tears to look at Alan. "I know," she breathed in a somewhat wobbly voice, "that Charlie obviously felt he couldn't come to me for help." She blushed. "My cousin put the family through years of heartbreak because of addiction before he finally OD'd; I've always had very strong opinions on this subject, and Charlie knows that." A defensive expression crossed her face, but it was soon replaced with one of sadness and resignation. She pulled her hand from Alan's and turned her head to look at Liz. "You're right about Don feeling responsible for Charlie. Even after the...incident, when Don...fell down the stairs, his main concern was always his brother. Even if Don didn't take him to a rehabilitation facility, they could be holed up in a hotel somewhere."

"Why would they do that?" Alan demanded. "And why wouldn't Don at least tell us what he was going to do?"

Amita chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then went back to staring at the tabletop. "Something like this could lead to the loss of Charlie's clearance," she mused, then glanced at Liz. "Couldn't it?"

Liz shrugged. "Conceivably. There are a lot of variables..."

Amita didn't seem to want to hear anymore, and turned her attention to Alan. "Maybe Don's job would even be endangered, if he covered for Charlie. Maybe Don didn't want you worrying, or fluttering around making Jello..."

Alan reddened, and Amita gasped. This time, she reached for Alan's hand. "Oh, God, Dad, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that!" She was on the verge of hysteria. "Please, forgive me!"

Alan smiled, and squeezed her hand. "There's nothing to forgive, dear. Everyone knows I make Jello."

Liz grinned, and Amita tried to smile. The tears that had been threatening suddenly began to fall, however, and soon her face was a study in misery. "Why would he leave me?" she whispered.

Alan let go of her hand - but only long enough to rise from his chair and move to stand behind hers. He leaned to wrap a now-sobbing Amita in his arms. "Hush, now," he murmured into her ear. "Charlie loves you; don't question that. Hush, sweetheart...it's okay…."

**...**

Nikki lounged against the battered desk at LAPD headquarters and inhaled the aroma of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The scent of both the coffee and the office brought back memories. Coffee there had its own particular bouquet – stronger than normal, slightly acid. She missed the coffee – but as much as she had enjoyed the work there, she didn't miss being an officer. How could she miss it, after the step up she'd been handed? **F B I.** She spoke the letters to herself, proudly, almost mystically. She was FBI.

She sipped at her coffee, waiting while Joe Wharton talked on the phone. She knew him from back when, and as her luck would have it, he'd been assigned to the Eppes case. He was a ready-made contact, and she was there to pick his brains, just as she'd been instructed to do by A.D. Wright. She paused in mid-sip as Joe's voice rose, and she looked at him. He was looking back at her meaningfully, wanting her to hear his side of the conversation.

"Slow down, miss. What did you say your name was? Trina Watson? Can you spell that for me?" He jotted on a pad of paper, and began repeating back to her what he'd heard, partly to confirm it, but partly so that Nikki could hear. "Okay, now, you're saying you got an email from an old patient of yours? He says he's in trouble – that he's in fear for his life from his sister, who is his caretaker now? And where are you? San Franciso? Why are you calling LAPD? Because your old patient is in the L.A. area? And 911 gave you the LAPD switchboard number. Okay. Hold on just a second." He covered the receiver with his hand, and spoke quietly to Nikki.

"I'm trying to slow her down, get her to calm down and talk through this again, but you may want to get on the phone with your people while I do this. She says she was contacted by a former patient of hers named Mark Vincent, who is now in the care of his sister. I worked the Montague case – Mark Vincent's sister is Audrey Montague." His eyes gleamed with excitement. "But get this – Ms. Watson here said there are two others captive, there with him."

Nikki stared at him. "That doesn't even make sense," she said. "Mark Vincent is in a coma. How could he email her?"

Joe's face fell. "I forgot about that." His forehead puckered. "Was he really in a coma? Or maybe he was just a paraplegic or something – can't they hook someone like that up to a computer?"

"I don't know," Nikki said slowly. "I thought he was comatose. I'm gonna call and check though, just to be sure. Does she have an address?"

Joe spoke into the phone. "Ms. Watson, do you have an address, a location of where they are supposed to be? Okay, let me write that down. Look, I'm gonna give you my email address, and I want you to forward that email to me. Okay, hold on…"

Nikki didn't hear the rest of the conversation; she had pulled out her cell phone and was busy starting a call of her own. Her coffee sat, forgotten and growing stone cold on an LAPD desk, as it had so many times in the past.

**…**

A half hour later, Nikki was back at the FBI offices, huddled in a conference room with Colby, Liz, David, Sam Jarrett, and A.D. Wright. It was nearly eight in the morning, and the bullpen bustled with agents. Inside the conference room, however, it was quiet, as Liz' quick fingers hit a keyboard. She waited then, frowned and shook her head. "Nothing," she muttered. "I don't see any property listings under Audrey's name – not under Montague, and not under her maiden name, Paris. Not just here – nothing comes up on the national database, either."

A.D. Wright frowned. "She's not listed as the owner of the address that Trina Watson gave us?"

Liz shook her head. "No, it's another name -," she broke off abruptly and hit the keys again.

David's brows were drawn. "I don't know, this just doesn't sound right. Mark Vincent was in a coma – how could he possibly communicate?"

"We're sure he's in a coma?" interjected Colby. "Maybe he has some function."

"I _saw_ him," retorted David, his dark eyes flashing. "When we were working the Tuttle case, I drove over to San Francisco to check out Audrey's story, and to make sure this brother of hers was real. He was real, all right. His eyes were open, but he couldn't move, couldn't talk. He was just a shell."

"And shells don't send emails," said Liz, quietly, thoughtfully. Colby and David glared at each other across the table.

Liz hit the 'enter' key, and uttered an exclamation. "Now I know why the property owner's name sounded familiar. He's Audrey's attorney!"

Sam Jarrett spoke up. "She must have had him put the house in his name – but why?"

"A need for privacy, maybe -," Colby was already rising from the table, "who cares? That's enough for me."

David opened his mouth with a scowl, apparently to argue, but Sam Jarrett cut him off. His drawl was quiet, but his voice had a weight that belied his soft delivery. It had the effect of stopping Colby in his tracks, and David in mid sentence. "I'm thinkin' it bears checkin' out," he stated calmly, "but since we aren't sure, we ought to do it right. Unless you don't need little things like warrants here in the big city."

A.D. Wright grinned at him. "We most certainly do. Granger, just hold up. You aren't going dashing off half-cocked, and Sinclair, don't smirk – I agree with Colby and Sam – this is enough reason to go check it out. Get a warrant and a team together - we're going in."

**….**

J. Everett Tuttle sat on the veranda of his rented house in the Caymans, and frowned absently at the handy man several yards below him, pruning the tropical growth that was constantly threatening to choke the driveway. He'd just hung up from a phone call with his man Ralph Nardek, and the nagging sensation that had begun a day or two ago was intensifying. He couldn't put a finger on it – couldn't even call it a suspicion, but he felt instinctively that something wasn't right. Never mind the fact that Nardek was supposed to be on a plane out to join him today, and had cancelled his flight. No, there was something else there – the partly cocky, partly evasive tone in Nardek's voice that had never been there before, his hesitation before answering routine comments or questions, as if he was thinking about his reply, first – but it wasn't enough to point out, to call him on it. Just enough to make J. Everett Tuttle wonder if he was being sold out, and to spark thoughts of how he would retaliate if he was.

**….**

Charlie retched weakly, and took in a shuddering breath. He was swimming in pain; it seemed that he'd been either hit or kicked everywhere on his body, except for his head, and even there he'd taken a couple of glancing blows to the face. Nardek hadn't wanted to knock him out, but he had apparently enjoyed inflicting pain, and had delivered blow after punishing blow, magnified by the brass knuckles and the nightstick he'd used to deliver most of his abuse to Charlie's torso and arms. Legs were another story; Nardek had preferred to use his own legs and feet there – stomping and kicking. Charlie was sure that nearly every square inch of his body was bruised.

That alone didn't account for how badly he felt, however. Bruises were just that – bruises, and as painful as they were, he didn't think they could account for all of his other symptoms – the dizziness, the nausea, the strange pains that gripped his chest and made it hard to breathe. He must have internal injuries, he reasoned; he was certain he had broken ribs. He retched again, and the resulting wave of pain that coursed through his body pulled a whimper from him.

"Charlie."

Charlie blinked, and tried to focus. Don was awake and crawling toward him, painfully. He looked bad, too – he was breathing heavily as he pulled himself along the floor. Charlie couldn't respond; he didn't have enough left, just stared through slit eyes as his brother crept next to him, and raised a hand that still had a fuzzy pink cuff attached, encircling his bloody wrist. Don lowered the hand gently on Charlie's shoulder and left it there, and just panted for a moment, trying to regain his own breath. "He's typing. Mark. Can't see what – but I hope – he's calling for help. If he is, Buddy – it shouldn't be long – you just need to hang in there – okay?"

Charlie closed his eyes, swallowed, then opened them and tried form a response. _Okay._ His lips moved, but no sound came. A shudder ran through him; he closed his eyes, then fought to open them again. The dizziness overwhelmed him; he felt un-tethered, drifting, as if he were twisting in the wind. Had to stay awake, in case they came back. If he was unconscious, they would turn on Don, and he couldn't let them hurt his brother any more than they already had. After all, it was his fault that Don was here. Had to hold out, as long as he could…

The door creaked behind him, and he stiffened. Ralph Nardek's voice floated into the room behind him.

"Hello, boys. How are we doing this morning?"

**….**

End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22: Fight to the End

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 22: Fight to the End**

**…**

Ralph Nardek felt good. He stood there for a moment, smiling, as he surveyed the two beaten brothers across the library floor. He'd felt great when he woke that morning, even though he'd gotten little sleep the night before. He was done with being Tuttle's geeky sidekick, done with being number three or four in Tuttle's organization. He was his own man now. The sense of power that came with subduing another person, with inflicting pain and imposing his will, was exhilarating. He'd experienced it on a physical level by beating Charlie Eppes, and on a mental level as well, as he played mind games with the agent. He imagined Big Brother Eppes had always had little brother's back in a fight, and it was obviously pure torture for the man to watch his sibling's beating. Of course, he'd gotten in a few licks at Don Eppes, too, and looking at him now, Nardek realized he must have done more damage than he thought. Eppes had somehow broken his cuffs from the iron grating on the fireplace, but he posed no threat – his ankles were still cuffed and he looked whipped and pale, and was breathing heavily. He was still hunched protectively over his brother in spite of his own pain, apparently ready to fight to the end.

Charlie Eppes looked as though he was already at his end. He had been lying on his side, facing away from Nardek as he entered, and there was a reeking puddle of vomit on the floor. Nardek watched him take a few painful breaths as if gathering his strength, and then roll onto his back as well as he could with his hands bound behind him, and turn his head so he could meet Nardek's eyes. The professor's eyelids were drooping, he had dried vomit on his clothes, and Nardek could read a strange mix of despair, fear and defiance in his expression. Apparently, the professor understood that he didn't have much time left, but he planned to use it like his brother – to fight until the end. Nardek smiled. Neither of them realized it yet, but it _was_ the end.

That morning, Nardek had decided that he no longer needed either of them to talk. It had been several hours, and the lack of police response meant that the Eppes had probably been acting on their own volition. It made sense – an official visit would have been accompanied by a warrant, and most probably some official back up – at least one other agent or officer. The fact that there was none bore out his theory – the brothers had probably waited until Audrey left the house, and had come inside to snoop around and see what they could find - unofficially. He probably would have come to that conclusion sooner, if he hadn't been drunk on the pain he was inflicting, and on the mind-blowing sex with Audrey afterward.

She slipped in after him, clad in sweatpants and bra-less in a T-shirt, clutching her arms around her middle. She was thin as a wraith, but Nardek liked them skinny; the size difference made him feel big and powerful. He'd dominated her last night, too; it had been one long night of flaunting his power, of feeling in control. It was a new sensation, and the more he got, the more he craved. Now it was time for the ultimate sense of domination; the thrill of taking a man's life.

He smiled and strolled forward, watching Don Eppes' shoulders bunch as he tensed. If his legs had been free and he'd been in better condition, Nardek had no doubt the man would spring from his crouched position like a cat. As it was, Nardek approached close enough to nudge the professor, who lay between them, with his toe. The look in Don Eppes' eyes made him back away a step or two immediately, however. No sense taking chances.

He smirked down at him. "Rough night, agent? How about you, professor? Ready for another go?"

Audrey licked her lips and moved in beside him. "We're gonna do it again?"

Nardek glanced at her, noted the aroused, hungry look in her eyes, and wondered for a moment if she meant torturing the professor, or going back to bed. Maybe a little of both. She was a stoner, a meth-head, but apart from that, they were very similar. He'd planned to kill her and ditch her, too, but just maybe, he'd take her along. Show up one night at Tuttle's home in the Cayman Islands with her by his side, just to see the look on the bastard's face before he got rid of him. That, he'd decided, was a necessity – it was best to get rid of the man before Tuttle could retaliate – he was too dangerous.

Nardek held her gaze, and shrugged. "I'd just planned to get it over with. They're obviously on their own, or there would have been some backup here by now." He pulled a nine millimeter out of his jacket and slowly canted it, admiring it, letting the artificial light gleam coldly off the barrel. It was daylight outside, a glorious morning, but the library had no windows. The Eppes brothers would never see daylight again. He drank in the sight of both men staring at him, dumbly, as the realization dawned on their faces - that all of their resistance had been in vain, and they were about to die. He could see fear in their eyes; not for themselves – that was made obvious by the tortured glances they exchanged – but for each other. Nardek smiled, and holstered his gun. "Of course, if you want to play a little, first, babe, you can. They aren't going anywhere." He swept a hand with mock grandness toward his duffel bag, and the instruments of pain still strewn around it. "Take your pick."

He watched as Audrey sidled toward it, stepping around the instruments on the floor as she examined them. Neither of them gave Mark Vincent a second glance, or noticed that his gurney was now facing the computer, instead of away from it.

**…**

Sam Jarrett stepped quietly from the FBI-issue van that he had parked at the side of the road, shifting his protective vest a bit, trying to get comfortable. It had been a while since he'd been on a big time raid, and judging by the snug fit of the vest, he'd put on a few pounds since moving back to Heise, Idaho. It was a little exhilarating to be a part of something this big again, but he wasn't too swept up by it – he'd had many years of it in Denver, and he still remembered how tired he'd gotten of it – the endless, senseless crimes, the paperwork, the department and city politics. He was glad to be back in Idaho, he told himself, working as a small town sheriff, glad to be back with family and friends. Still, it was exciting to see a big city crew in action – LAPD and FBI no less. They were sharp, slick professionals, and for a law enforcement officer, their smoothness and efficiency were a pleasure to watch.

He waited next to the van as they fanned out around the house, staking out the windows and exits in case anyone decided to run, before Agents Granger, Sinclair, and Warner approached the house to knock on the door. There were two vehicles there, and Jarrett noted that an LAPD officer was already calling in license plate numbers. The man had the answer and was delivering it into Sinclair's earpiece before the agent even reached the front steps. Yep, they were professionals, all right, smart and in control. Agent Nikki Betancourt, closer to the steps, moved in to help provide back up, as Sinclair lifted his hand to knock.

**…**

From the front steps, Colby Granger shot a quick look over his shoulder to make sure the others were in position, and caught Liz Warner's eye briefly as he turned back in time to see Sinclair raise his hand to the ornate knocker. Liz's gaze was steady, but Colby could read the hint of anticipation in her eyes – a readiness for action, if necessary, but also a mixture of hopefulness and anxiety. They all remembered the grueling search for the Eppes brothers the first time; none of them wanted to go through that experience again, but in a way, Colby didn't want to find them there. If they had been there all night, it couldn't be a good thing, because he couldn't imagine them hiding out at Audrey Paris' house. And if they weren't hiding out, and hadn't called in, it could only mean that they were being held against their will, or worse. A chill passed through him, and he shook it off as Sinclair abandoned the knocker and pushed the buzzer. In spite of that woman's phone call, saying she had gotten the message from Mark Vincent, the chances of the Eppes brothers being here were slight, he told himself, just as the door cracked open.

A pale face looked out through the crack, made even whiter-looking by the darkness inside. Audrey Paris – although for a moment, Colby hardly recognized her. Her hair was a mess, she wore only the remnants of yesterday's makeup, and she had lost weight – she looked as though she'd come through some wasting illness. A drug user, if Colby had ever seen one.

"What it is?" Her eyes were wide and she looked frightened, but so would any woman out in the middle of nowhere, confronted by a cadre of police. "Is something wrong?"

Colby's eyes narrowed, trying to assess whether she was frightened because she was guilty, or simply freaked out by all of the cops.

"Audrey Paris, we'd like to talk to you," said Sinclair. David had a way of putting people at ease, with a calm polite demeanor and a hint of a smile, all the while conveying with his eyes that he fully expected a person to comply with his wishes.

Audrey's face transformed into a nasty snarl. "I've had enough harassment from you people," she snapped. "Talk to my lawyer."

Before Sinclair could get out anything else, she had slammed the door. David immediately reached for the knob, but it was locked, and they could hear the sound of deadbolts snapping inside. David pounded on the door again. "We've got a warrant!" he yelled. "You have to let us in, Audrey!"

There was no response, and Colby looked at the massive wooden door with a sigh. "That one's gonna be a bitch," he muttered as they tromped down the steps, making room for the ramming equipment, which was already being pulled from a police van.

He'd just taken his place with the officers holding the ram – as one of the larger men there he knew he'd be expected to provide some muscle – when a revving engine stopped them halfway up the walk. A sleek sports car shot around the side of the house, with Audrey at the wheel. She charged the line of police like a kamikaze pilot, tearing across the yard toward an opening between a police car and a SWAT van. If she made the opening and the road beyond, in that car, she'd be gone. Officers froze in shock, then ran toward her, the nearest ones flashing guns and calling for her to halt. It was futile and they knew it. She was picking up speed, nearing the break in the line, but just as the sports car made the opening, it closed. An FBI-issue van had come up from behind the SWAT van, darting into the open space, and bridging the gap. The sports car was roaring across the lawn at top speed, and although Audrey tromped on the brakes, it was too little, too late. She smashed into the van with a sickening bang, the front half of the car crumpled, and it stopped dead by the side of the van.

Colby and his crew dropped the ram, and he and the rest of the officers and agents ran forward. Most of them stopped at the car, and as Colby charged past it he caught a glimpse of Audrey pinned by the steering wheel. The air bag had gone off, but was already nearly deflated; little protection against a wall of crushing metal, and Colby could see Audrey's head draped over the wheel, bloody, motionless and hanging at an unnatural angle. He kept going, around the side of the FBI van, where Sheriff Sam Jarrett sat behind the wheel, staring dazedly out the windshield. Colby jerked open the door. "You okay?" he asked.

Jarrett shook his head as if to clear it, then sent him a shaky half-smile, meant to reassure. "Yeah – I think so – kinda knocked my head on the window." He swiveled his head to his right to look at the damage, and then turned back to Colby with a shocked expression. "Damn – is she okay? I just was trying to head her off – I didn't think she'd keep comin' like that."

Nikki Betancourt had appeared at Colby's side, and caught Jarrett's statement. "You did just fine, Sheriff," she said firmly. To Colby she said softly, "I'll stay with him. They need you back at the door – they're going in."

Colby looked up, and sure enough, the men were picking up the ram again. Others were calling up an ambulance, securing the crash scene. Someone had taken Colby's spot on the ram and he let them, instead trotting over and lining up with David and Liz, ready to cover them as they entered.

It took a few good strikes with the ram, but then the front door gave with the sharp report of snapping metal and splintering wood, and they swung inside. David and Liz headed straight down a hallway, and other officers poured in behind them, some heading for the stairs, others down a side hallway next to the stairs. Colby continued behind David and Liz, and he and Liz provided cover as David paused near a closed door, and then swung inside, pistol extended. Nothing but an oversized walk-in coat closet. David eased out and shut the door, and they proceeded down the hall to the next door.

This time it was Colby's turn. He waited as Liz and David lined up on either side of the door, then grabbed the knob, turned it and kicked the door open as he barged through it, gun up. He got only a step through the door, when he stopped dead, brought to a halt by the sight in front of him.

**….**

Ralph Nardek paused and wiped the sweat from his brow, looking back through the undergrowth toward the house. It had taken little to convince Audrey to flee – he'd pointed out the gap in the line, and told her to sneak into the garage for her car, and go for it. She'd almost made it, too. Ralph had slipped out a back exit, left unmanned as the cops ran around to the front of the house, drawn by the commotion Audrey was causing. He heard the crash, and chanced a quick look as he got across the open space of lawn and gained the trees at the back of the property. The little sports car was smashed, and cops were milling around it. Ralph plunged into the woods and didn't look back again.

He jogged on for what seemed like miles, up over the hill and down the other side, until he finally hit a rural road, and began trudging along it. His escape was far from perfect.

When the police had shown up, he'd sent Audrey to the front door, thinking it was just the nurse showing up for Mark's morning appointment, that Audrey had forgotten to call and cancel. He'd heard her voice, then the door slam, and then her quick light footsteps as she ran down the hallway, hissing, "The cops are here – they've got a warrant and they want to come in!"

Nardek had frozen for an instant, his hand going to his gun automatically as he looked down at the Eppes brothers. If he killed them, he'd eliminate witnesses against him, but if he didn't manage to escape, the evidence would be damning, and he knew that Audrey would turn him in to save her hide. On the other hand, if he did escape, and Audrey did too…

He wiped his brow again as he plodded down the dusty road. Now, as he reflected on his decision, he realized that no matter what, he was forever a fugitive. His fingerprints were all over the instruments of torture; he'd left DNA evidence in Audrey's bed. Of course, he could deny it – he could say that Tuttle had asked him to collect the instruments and bring them over to Audrey's place, and when he got there, she lured him up to her bed. He could say that he had no idea that the Eppes brothers were in the library, and that their kidnapping and torture were all Audrey's doing. He could say that he had gone home that evening – that he was nowhere even near the house when the cops showed up. It wouldn't be enough to keep him out of court, but it might create reasonable doubt in the minds of a jury.

He thought back to the Eppes brothers, lying motionless on the floor, and the accident scene in front of the house - the little red sports car had looked pretty cracked up – maybe Audrey had been killed. Audrey was the big unknown. If she was alive, he had no doubt she would turn him in to save her hide – hadn't she done as much with her own husband? He just had to hope that she had died in the crash, but no matter what, with all the other evidence, he had no choice – no matter what; he was on the run.

**…..**

End Chapter 22

.


	23. Chapter 23: Dead Men Don't Talk

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 23: Dead Men Don't Talk**

**…**

Nardek shook his head, grimly, as he trudged onward. The dusty side road gave way to asphalt, and he turned south onto a rural two-lane highway. Maybe Tuttle was right – maybe he wasn't cut out for this. If he'd had any guts at all, he'd have shot the brothers when he had the chance. If Audrey really was dead, he'd have eliminated all the witnesses. All they'd have against him was circumstantial evidence, and the feds would probably gladly give him a break, maybe not press any charges at all, if he gave them incriminating evidence against Tuttle.

Instead, he'd chickened out – too afraid of a murder rap. He'd simply knocked the brothers out, so they couldn't immediately tell the cops when they entered that there was another captor, and then he was on the run. In retrospect, it was a big mistake. Of course, if he had hit them hard enough, they'd be out for a while, and if they were out long enough, maybe he could get to them in the hospital, before they woke - maybe Audrey too, if she had made it through the crash alive…. There might be a way out of this, after all. He stopped dead in his tracks, pondering that thought, then straightened and began looking around for a passing motorist. He needed to get back into town.

**…**

Nikki stood on the lawn, motionless, as wooden as the boy-and-lantern lawn ornament next to her, watching the medics wheel gurneys down the walk toward waiting ambulances. Colby stood behind her, shoulders sagging.

"It ain't right," she muttered. "We found 'em right away – after just a few hours. How could one little piss-ant of a woman do so much damage?"

Colby said nothing; he just swallowed. His face was somber – and he wasn't making her feel any better. Colby knew injuries from his combat experience in Afghanistan; he had a sense for what was serious and what wasn't, and he didn't look very confident. It made Nikki feel as though things were out of control, and she was just like her boss, Don Eppes, in that respect – she hated to feel out of control. It pissed her off.

Liz Warner strode over toward them. "Nikki." she said, her voice uncharacteristically curt. "Sinclair wants one of us in each ambulance. There's not much room. David said that you and I should go."

Nikki rolled her head a little, to try to free her neck from the tension that gripped it. "All right, I'm comin'."

She left Colby standing there, and made her way toward the waiting ambulances. A little further down the driveway a third ambulance was already pulling out, carrying Audrey Paris. Nikki climbed inside the nearest one and found herself in Charlie's ambulance, and settled herself dourly next to a medic. He took one glance at her, and wisely turned to help his partner with readings. Nikki stared down at Charlie's face, which was already half covered with an oxygen mask.

He didn't look too bad, she reflected, as the ambulance began to roll down the drive– a small bruise or two on his face and a few on his forearms. That thought lasted all of two minutes, and vanished completely when the medics began to cut the professor's vomit-stained T-shirt from his body. Nikki gasped. Charlie's chest, shoulders, and abdomen were nearly one solid bruise – some areas darker and more swollen than others, but it didn't appear that he had an inch of skin that was untouched. As the medics carefully turned him to check for wounds that needed immediate attention, Nikki could see that his back was the same way, a mottled kaleidoscope of bruises. "Son of a bitch," she whispered, her lips tightening.

An uneasy feeling settled in her gut. This might have been the work of one person, but she had a hard time believing that skinny, wasted Audrey Paris would have had the strength or the stamina to carry out what looked to have been an extended beating. Her brow furrowed, and her gaze rested again on Charlie's face. She only knew him professionally, but he had always struck her as cheerful, energetic, a little naïve. It was hard to picture his face without a smile or an eager expression on it, but last night, he had to have been terrified, and in significant pain. She scowled. If she'd been pissed off before, she was furious now.

**….**

Liz Warner kept her features carefully composed as she glanced down at Don Eppes, and then sent an assessing glance out the back window of the ambulance. Even if they hadn't been lovers once, she cared about him as a boss, a colleague and she hoped, a friend, and to see him out cold with a nasty purple bruise on the side of his forehead, and a raw and bleeding wrist where the handcuff had been, made her heart twist. Still, she kept cool, made her face impassive, or so she hoped, as the medics assessed him.

As they removed his shirt, she noticed a bruise or two on his muscular chest, but all in all, he didn't look too bad. Whatever had caused the bruise on his forehead had obviously knocked him out, but hopefully, he wasn't facing much more serious than a moderate concussion. Things were looking up a bit, compared to that first awful moment when she and Colby and Sinclair had stepped through the library door and took in the sprawled, inert bodies on the floor.

She glanced up and out the back window again, and caught a glimpse of a fourth ambulance pulling up to the front of the house, as men wheeled another gurney from the entrance. Mark Vincent. No one could exactly be sure whether he'd been harmed, too, so they were bringing him in for evaluation. He'd been hooked up to the computer via electrodes – Trina Watson had been right – according to the text on the screen. Mark Vincent, supposedly in a coma, had been communicating via computer, and had undoubtedly saved the Eppes brothers' lives. Liz shuddered a little, as the realization hit that if it were not for a little known bit of cutting-edge technology, they wouldn't have found them at all. She had no doubt that Charlie would have some way of calculating the odds of that, and she also had no doubt that they were astronomically small. Her eyes rested on Don's face, and she breathed a little prayer of thanks.

**…**

Alan Eppes ran a weary hand over his face and shifted uncomfortably on the hospital waiting room chair. Amita and Robin paced across the room, back and forth across a big picture window, like two sentries on guard duty, both silent, lost in thought. In another corner of the waiting area, Nikki and Liz were clustered in a small group with Colby and Sam Jarrett, who was sporting a small bandage near his temple, covering the small cut he'd received when his head had hit the window of the van. Alan had already heard all about it from Colby – how Audrey had tried to flee, how they'd found his sons…

He fought back a shudder. According to the agents, Don and Charlie were bruised and unconscious, but hopefully no worse, although as time went on and no one appeared with an update, he became more and more concerned. He sighed and dropped his head, then raised it again as a hand fell lightly on his shoulder. To his surprise, Rabbi Shulman stood before him. The rabbi patted his shoulder gently, and then settled beside him. "I know how you feel," he said simply. "I was leaving the hospital after a visit with Aaron, and I saw you come in – then I heard what happened from one of the agents. I thought I would pay you a visit – I hope am not intruding."

"No, not at all. You're very kind." Alan hesitated. He'd heard that Aaron Shulman had survived the shooting, but he hadn't heard anything since – he had no idea whether the man had regained normal function or not – and he was afraid to ask. The rabbi seemed to read his mind. "My Aaron was supposed to be dead," he said softly. "A bullet in his brain – and yet God decreed that he live. He is conscious, and has all of his mental capability. He will have some permanent disability in his arm and hand, and will walk with a limp, but for a man who was supposed to be dead, it is truly a miracle. I feared the worst; and in my darkest hour, I did not place my trust in God. You should."

Alan's face twisted in sympathy. "Did they ever find out who did it – or why?"

Rabbi Shulman shrugged; a slight movement of his tiny shoulders. "No – the police think he was a random victim, perhaps of a gang initiation, or perhaps a robbery attempt that was aborted. They could find no enemies, no motive. In the end, it matters not. His life will be forever changed."

Just at that moment, a woman in scrubs came into the area, holding a clipboard. "Eppes?" she called.

The rabbi placed a tiny wizened hand on Alan's arm. "Remember," he said, nodding sagely. "Place your trust in God."

Alan managed to nod. "Thank you," he said hoarsely, and he rose and walked toward the woman, on knees that seemed a bit rubbery.

Colby, who had apparently been selected to represent the agents, along with Robin and Amita, met him at the woman's side, and she led them through double doors into another waiting area. Down the hall, Alan could see two doctors conferring, and then one of them turned and came toward them. He nodded briefly as he reached them. He was olive-skinned and had dark hair, sharp dark eyes, and spoke flawless American English. He could have been any one of a number of nationalities. "I'm Dr. Wolf," he said to Alan, "I understand you are Don and Charles' father. I will be your sons' attending physician. Charles will be under surveillance while we get the remainder of his scans and blood work -,"

"Charlie," interjected Alan. "Everyone calls him Charlie."

Wolf nodded, and his gaze flickered over the two women. "Good to know. He hasn't woken yet. We don't see anything immediately life-threatening in either of their cases, although Charlie was apparently beaten, and Don has a condition that will require some minor surgery."

"Beaten," echoed Alan faintly. He blinked. "Surgery?"

Wolf nodded. "Don has woken already, and they're prepping him now."

"Is it his arm?"

"No – his cast was intact, and his arm wasn't re-broken. He has an abdominal hernia – actually a tear in the diaphragm, and the contents of his abdomen are pushing up through the opening into his chest cavity. It sounds much worse than it is – although it is very painful, and in certain positions it can be hard for him to breathe, so it must be corrected right away. We spoke to him – apparently he was restrained - ," here Wolf's eyes flickered to Colby, still in his FBI raid gear, "– and he thinks he might have actually caused the injury himself, when he tried to break free. The surgery will be laparoscopic, and should heal quickly. Once we're done evaluating Charlie, we'll bring him up to a room, and they'll bring Don to the same floor, when his surgery is finished – if not the same room, then one as close as they can get. Now, if you want to go in and see Don before his surgery, you can. He's down the hall in bay five, to your left."

Amita spoke up, a quaver in her voice, and when Alan glanced at her, he could see tears brimming in her eyes. Behind, her Colby looked grim. "What about Charlie?" she said. "Can we see him?"

"You will," said Wolf, reassuringly. "Right now he's getting more X-rays and a CAT scan. With all the bruising, we need to check for internal injuries. Unless those scans show that he needs immediate surgery, he'll be in a room shortly, and we'll let you know as soon as he's there." He shot a glance at the rest of the group. "Please make your visit with Don short, and it would be good if you limited it to just a couple of you."

"I'll go back out in the waiting area," said Amita, miserably.

Robin hesitated, looking at Amita sympathetically. "I'll go with Amita," she said to Alan. "Tell Don I'm here, and I'll see him when he comes out."

They separated, and Colby shuffled along with Alan as he made his way to bay five. "Sorry," he said, "if he's conscious, I have to ask him a couple of questions."

Alan nodded, as he pushed through the door. "Don't apologize – just get whoever did this." He stopped as he caught sight of Don, then slowly advanced. "Son. How are you doing?"

Don's eyes moved toward them. The movement was slow but deliberate, but Don's gaze seemed sharp – he appeared fully conscious. How, Alan wasn't sure, because there was a nasty purple swelling on one side of forehead, and Alan could see the lines of pain in his face. "Dad." His eyes move toward Colby, and his brow furrowed. "How's Charlie?"

"We haven't seen him yet. They've got him in for X-rays," Alan replied. "They said he was – beaten." It was had to make the word come out, and he swallowed. "They said they didn't see anything immediately life-threatening – it sounds like they're just being cautious."

Don's frown deepened, and his gaze drifted away. "I don't know," he said softly, almost as if to himself.

Colby frowned back at him. "Don't know what?"

Don blinked, as if he'd forgotten they were there. He looked at Alan. "It was pretty bad, Dad," he said hoarsely. "They beat the hell out of him."

Alan felt the blood drain from his face. True, the doctor had said 'beaten,' but Alan, perhaps out of denial, had been depicting a couple of bruises. From the tortured look on Don's face, it appeared there had been much more to it. "What?" he asked faintly.

At the same time, Colby said, "They? Who's 'they'?"

"Ralph Nardek," spat Don, as if he had a nasty taste in his mouth. "Audrey, too, but-,"

"_Ralph Nardek_?" Colby was frowning. "We got Audrey, all right, but we didn't find Nardek."

Don stared at him. "He was right there, with her," he said, a note of puzzlement in his voice. "I heard you at the door – we could hear the knocking and the buzzer. Nardek was still with us when you got there." His face closed. "He knocked us out – I don't know what happened after that – but he was there."

Colby fidgeted, looked at his phone, and shook his head. "We went through the entire house, and didn't find anyone else. Audrey tried to make a run for it – tried to blast her way through the police line in a sports car that she apparently had in the garage. We stopped her, but it caused a lot of confusion for a few minutes. Nardek could have slipped out while that was going on. Look, Don, I'd better get this info to David – we need to get out a bulletin on Nardek. Was there anyone else involved?"

Don shook his head, and the movement made him wince. "No."

Alan spoke up. "What were you doing there, anyway?"

"Charlie got a message from Mark Vincent. He has some special equipment – if he's hooked up to it, he can manipulate a cursor, and work a computer. He sent Charlie a message – said he had incriminating info on Audrey. We went out there to check it out."

Colby frowned. "Why didn't you call it in?"

Don grimaced. "I should have. It just sounded so – off the wall. I guess I really didn't believe there was anything to it. And then we had to hurry – Vincent said Audrey would only be out of the house for a short time. Charlie was going to rush off and see Mark by himself; I insisted on going with him." He made an expression of disgust. "Fat lot of good I was. Someone jumped me – probably Audrey – knocked me out while I was looking at Mark's computer screen." He looked at Colby. "Maybe you can get Audrey to talk – to cough up information on Nardek. He had to be working for Tuttle."

Colby shook his head, as he made for the door. "If she's able to talk. She hit the side of one of our vans at full speed. They're not sure she's gonna make it."

Pausing at the door, he looked back over his shoulder, and his normally placid blue eyes looked hard. "Don't worry, we'll get Nardek." He pushed out through the door, and it swung softly shut behind him.

**…..**

One good thing about his somewhat geeky appearance, thought Ralph Nardek as his ride pulled into Glendale, was that people weren't afraid to pick him up. The Latino farmer, on his way to a corner farmer's market with a load of melons, gave him a ride all the way into Glendale – only a few miles from Nardek's apartment. From there he grabbed a cab and was in and out quickly, taking the chance that there would be no one there – that they weren't on to him yet. His gamble paid off – there were no cops in sight. At his place, he retrieved another gun, a fake passport – Tuttle had them made for all of the people who worked close to him – and an ATM card for an account in his fake name. He quickly jotted down the numbers of local hospitals from the phone book, particularly on the north side of L.A., and then walked out in the alleyway behind his apartment, tore apart his phone, and pulled out the GPS chip so they couldn't trace him by phone. He left the chip in the alleyway, and took a cab to Tuttle's place.

There, he got on Tuttle's computers and transferred a sizable amount of money into an offshore account he'd set up for himself. It was under the false name on his passport, and tied to his false bank account in the States. In the next day or so, when he had more time, he'd arrange a transfer of funds to another private account in the Caymans, to further obscure the money trail. He helped himself to one of Tuttle's vehicles in the large garage at the back of his property – a plain white utility van – and stopped at an electronics store to pick up a pre-paid cell phone, from which he could make untraceable calls. Then, sitting in the van in the store parking lot, he called the most likely hospital on his list, the closest trauma center to Audrey Paris' home – Huntington Memorial Hospital.

The line was answered on the other end by a woman, who sounded pleasant and middle-aged. "Huntington Memorial information," she said.

"I'm calling from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I would like information on three patients," said Nardek, in a polite but authoritative tone. "Don and Charles Eppes, and Audrey Paris."

"I am not allowed to release detailed information on those patients," the woman said, just as politely and just as firmly.

'_Bingo_,' thought Nardek. That meant that they were indeed there. "Perhaps you don't understand who I am," he said, keeping his voice light, but allowing a bit more steel to creep into it. He cast about for a name; thinking about the principle players in the case against his former boss. "I am Assistant FBI Director Phillip Wright, and I am handling the case related to those three patients. I have Washington on the other line, and I really don't want to tell them we have to wait for an official release."

"Oh." The woman's voice faltered. "Well, this is irregular, sir – but I think one of your agents is here – let me check -,"

For a moment, Nardek's heart skipped. He really didn't want to talk to an agent; they would probably know the Assistant Director's voice. He breathed a little easier as the woman came on the line again. "Yes, sir, I happened to see one of your agents here outside the office – she told me that I could release the information. Both men were brought in unconscious and are being evaluated. Don Eppes required minor surgery, and is in surgery now. Charles Eppes is currently in Radiology. Audrey Paris _was_ here, but was life-flighted to UCLA Medical Center; I am afraid she is in critical condition. That's all I have, sir."

Nardek's heart began to beat just a bit faster. There was still a chance of pulling this off, if he could get there and get rid of the Eppes brothers before they became conscious. Audrey, too – she would have to go, if she didn't die on her own first – but the Eppes brothers were the first priority. From the sound of it, they were the most likely to become conscious first, although Ralph had decided already that it was in his best interest to get rid of them, whether they woke or not. Even if they talked before he could get to them, if they were dead, they couldn't testify against him in court. "Thank you -," he paused, waiting for a name.

"Shirley," replied the woman. He could almost see her flushing with embarrassed pleasure. "Shirley Chapman."

"Thank you, Shirley Chapman, you've been most helpful," said Nardek warmly. He hung up the phone, and smiled.

**…..**

End Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24: Endings

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 24: Endings**

**…**

Someone, someone who was apparently miserable, was groaning repeatedly. It was a pathetic and annoying sound.

Don ignored it as long as he could, but then the whispering started.

"You're fine, son, you're good. Relax, Donnie."

The voice seemed familiar, and filled him with a sense of comfort (before he even understood that he _needed_ comfort), but Don was having trouble assigning a name to the whisperer. He was also having trouble opening his eyes. Eventually the increased volume of the groans more fully awakened him, and he was sorry about that.

He was sorry, because while he had been napping, someone had inserted a basketball into his stomach. His eyes flew open. Dear God, let it be a basketball!

He recognized his father leaning over him. Alan's face was perilously close to his own, and Don jerked backwards. He opened his mouth to speak; heard the groan instead. Was that coming from him?

He blinked. "Wha?" he whispered.

Alan's face, now sporting a strained smile, backed away. In moments - or perhaps it was centuries, Don wasn't really sure - a spoonful of ice chips was deposited in his mouth. Without any conscious decisions involved on his part, Don found himself sucking on the ice eagerly. He felt overwhelming despair as the tiny chips melted. He wanted more.

Alan chuckled. "Yes, son, I'll give you some more."

Don's brow furrowed. Had he said that aloud?

Alan spooned some more ice, smoothing the hair back from Don's forehead when he was done. The patriarch clucked and sighed at the same time. "I was paying so much attention to your brother's hair," he said, "that I didn't I even notice how long yours was getting."

Don frowned. Charlie. Something nagged at the back of his mind, but Don was still confused. Were the two of them here for haircuts?

He shifted a little on the hospital bed and moaned again at the discomfort in his abdomen. His eyes watered, and he felt true fear. "Dad," he croaked. His voice was plaintive. "Am I pregnant?"

Alan looked shocked for a moment, glanced down at Don's abdomen, made a slight choking sound, and bowed his head, so that Don could only see the gray curls, and a set of shaking shoulders. Alan's own crinkled eyes seemed to be watering when he finally looked back at Don. He caught Don's hand, which was conducting a wavering search for the gigantic mound of stomach. "No, son," he assured his eldest, gripping Don's hand firmly in one of his own hands. Alan used his other hand to gently pat soothing circles onto Don's shoulder. "You've had laparoscopic surgery. Your abdominal cavity had to be inflated with gas to make room for the instruments."

Don still struggled with the after-effects of general anesthesia; after-affects that were no doubt complicated by his moderate concussion. Doctors had hesitated to use a general, because of Don's head injury. In the end they had decided to risk it. Don's intercranial pressure was good, and there were no signs of respiratory depression. Surgeons had wanted to combine a thorough exploration of the abdomen with the hernia repair, and preferred general anesthesia over spinal or regional anesthesia. The laparoscopic procedure, complete with the need to inflate the abdominal cavity with carbon dioxide gas, had been explained to Don before he was taken to the OR - but it would be some time before he remembered any of that.

Now, he just regarded Alan with sad and unbelieving eyes. "Don' wanna have baby," he mumbled, his eyes drooping.

Alan smiled at his son fondly. "All right," he assured. "I'll take care of it. Just get some sleep, son."

Don let his eyes close and yawned. "Take it 'way," he demanded.

Alan smoothed Don's wrinkled forehead. "I will," he promised. "I'll make all of this go away."

**...**

Slowly, gently, David replaced the telephone's receiver into its cradle. He sat stock-still for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and surveyed the room around him.

The bullpen was relatively quiet; it was only 5:30 a.m. in Los Angeles. Phillip Wright had pulled him aside the afternoon before, asked him to come in at 5:00 a.m. to take a call from the D.C. office. David had assumed it was because Don wasn't at work; a second-in-command taking over temporarily for an absent team leader.

David had been wrong.

He looked at Liz Warner's empty desk - and it was truly empty. If David hadn't known that someone worked at that station, he could have believed that the desk was agent-less. Regulation items - a stapler, a tape dispenser, a rolodex - stood in a neat row at the upper right corner. The cordless mouse sat exactly three inches to the right of a cordless keyboard, which sat squarely in front of a slightly wider flat screen; the screen extended beyond the keyboard, two inches on each side. That was it. Not even a pen or pencil out of place.

He suppressed a smile as his gaze moved to Nikki's desk. Betancourt's computer monitor was sitting almost vertical to the chair in front of the desk. The keyboard was sitting on the floor - he raised an eyebrow at that - and he didn't see a mouse at all. No less than five pens were scattered on the surface of the desk. Another pen protruded from the tape dispenser. The stapler was open, lying on its side on top of a stack of papers. There was a plant on the corner of the desk. David knew that it wasn't real; after Nikki had let at least four plants die on her desk, Colby had brought her an artificial African violet. Nikki had yet to find a way to kill silk, although David suspected she was working on it.

His smile faded as his head turned slightly to take in Colby's desk, which was opposite his own. Granger's desk was somewhere in-between the two extremes, and had a comfortable, lived-in feel - sort-of like Colby himself. They had worked together for years. Their partnership had bent under the pressure of the Chinese incident, but in the end, they had come together again. David had really thought he was over it - until Granger deceived him again, the first time Don and Charlie disappeared. Sinclair had been surprised himself at his reaction. He had watched their partnership, their friendship, disintegrate into distrust - and he had told himself he had every right to feel the way he did. He understood now that he had let his personal feelings get in the way; he had allowed himself to forget...Granger was a good agent. He had good instincts. David should have taken his opinions seriously.

Instead, almost like a jilted lover, he had ignored Colby's sound arguments. David's wounded pride had sentenced Don and Charlie to hours of torture, injuries that were still unclear...

David swallowed as his gaze moved to Don's desk. It was relatively clean - usually, it looked more like Nikki's desk than Liz's - but Eppes had been off duty since he fell down the stairs and broke his arm, and his desk looked like it. The computer was off, the stack of papers on the corner was about two feet shorter than normal, and only one pen lay on the desktop; in front of a picture of Robin. David knew that snapshots of Alan and Charlie were in one of the drawers; he had seen them when searching for other things. Don wasn't much for putting his personal life on display. Robin's photo had just come out of the drawer to sit on the desktop a few weeks ago, after Don and Charlie finally got back from their summer on the run.

David sighed. He didn't deserve these people. He was second-in-command, and he had let them all down. He had let his professional relationships become personal - and that was a mistake. When the personal side of a relationship got screwed up, so did the professional side, and in this line of work, that could get people hurt. Or worse.

Maybe it was time for a fresh start, David mused, staring at his telephone. As God was his witness, David knew that if he took the D.C. office up on its offer, he would not repeat his mistakes. His expression grew hard. He would keep his personal life completely separate from his professional one. He could make good decisions when he allowed himself to see clearly. For his sake, as well as for the benefit of the agents he worked with, he promised himself, he would never cross the line again.

**...**

Robin poked distractedly at her salad. She sighed before offering her tablemate a wry grin. "I know Alan is right; we needed to eat. Needed a break. I guess I'm just not very hungry."

Amita wasn't even pretending to be interested in the grilled cheese sandwich congealing on the plate in front of her – although she did take a sip of her coffee. "Um-hmm," she murmured, looking everywhere except at Robin.

Counselor Brooks tried again. "Don's doing well," she shared. "The plan is to get him out of bed for a walk this afternoon."

"I'm surprised they waited this long," replied Amita. "His surgery was almost 24 hours ago!"

Robin laughed lightly. "Well, a nurse did come in and make some noises about getting him up yesterday evening. Alan had one or two things to say about it."

Amita sipped at her coffee again, set the cup on the table, and finally met Robin's gaze with her own. "Alan's not spending much time with Charlie," she announced, then shrugged. "But Charlie is sleeping a lot."

Robin shifted in her chair, suddenly uncomfortable. "Well, he knows _you're_ there," she pointed out.

"And you're with Don," Amita responded. "Plus, Don is conscious; he can speak for himself."

"He told Alan that he wants to walk as far as Charlie's room," Robin offered. "I know Don is worried about his brother...it must be difficult for Alan, trying to split his time between them."

Amita shrugged again, looking away from Robin. "Not that he hasn't had years of practice," she said. She reddened and returned her attention to Robin. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."

"Of course it is!" Robin protested. "And it's perfectly understandable; I'm sure it's difficult seeing Charlie this way so soon after...after this summer. After all, this is the man you're going to marry!"

Robin felt the blood thicken in her veins at Amita's response. "I'm not so sure about that anymore," the professor admitted. Robin's mouth gaped open, but no words came out.

Amita shivered, wrapped her arms around her torso, and continued. "I just don't know, anymore," she admitted. "Charlie's not...who I thought he was. After I went against his wishes, while he was missing last summer...I don't think he trusts me, anymore. He didn't tell me what he was doing, this time." She lifted her chin defiantly, the tone of her voice daring Robin to disagree with her. "Frankly, I'm not sure _I_ trust _him_, either. Drugs?" She huffed out a breath, turning her head. "You don't know the things he's said to me, how short-tempered he's been. He treats me like...like a _roommate_, or a _sister_, or something!" She lowered her voice, and blushed again. "He hasn't wanted to have sex in weeks."

By now, Robin's salad was completely forgotten. "He's been through a lot," she started, but Amita interrupted, standing and preparing to leave.

"I need to think about some things," she said. "Now that I know Charlie is safe, I need to get away...go see my parents, maybe. I won't leave him alone – that's not how I'm wired. But once Don can start visiting him, and Alan remembers that he has another son, I'm going to leave LA for awhile." She picked up her still-full tray while Robin scrambled to her feet. Amita's face darkened with a slight scowl. "I just hope you all can work Charlie back into your schedules soon. I'm not sure how much longer I can do this."

**...**

Colby Granger stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam Jarrett, at the end of Charlie's hospital bed. "You should wake him up," he encouraged. "I'm sure he'd want to say _'goodbye'_."

Sam frowned worriedly. Only Charlie's face and forearms were visible above the crisp white hospital linen – but they looked bad enough, his arms covered with mottled purple bruises, to make him shudder at the thought of what was hidden under the thin gown. "He don't look too good," he muttered. "Are you sure he's gonna be all right?"

Privately, Colby shared Sam's assessment – the sleeping Eppes looked as if he had been run over by a truck (a truck that then backed up and run over him again) – but the agent spoke with a confidence he didn't feel. "He's tougher than he looks," he said. "Besides, if Charlie was in any danger, Alan would be hovering over him like a Jewish mother. Father. Whatever."

Sam smiled. "Well," he drawled, "we _did_ find him all alone; no visitors at all. Guess he needs his sleep."

"Yeah," Colby agreed. "I'm sure sleep will do wonders." He adjusted his stance. "Still, he'd want to see you before you leave."

Sam shook his head. "If his own family doesn't want to wake him up, I'm sure as hell not gonna do it. 'Sides, Dorie and Harry will want to talk to him; we'll call in a couple of days." He started to turn toward the door, then hesitated. "What have you heard about that woman?" he asked. "The one who did this."

Colby clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder, turning him more fully toward the door. "She's still unconscious," he said gently. "The UCLA docs are saying it's a deep coma." He was afraid the Sheriff would react badly to the news, having been driving the van that Audrey crashed into, but was relieved when Sam chuckled drily.

Sam started walking away from Charlie's bed. "After the way she treated her brother, and what she did to these boys..." he said, "...couldn't happen to a nicer bitch."

Colby smiled, nodding his head in agreement as he kept pace with Jarrett. "I know it's not the proper thing for me to say," he admitted, "but I gotta tell ya; the news don't break my heart."

Jarrett laughed again, and Colby changed the subject. "Come on, let's drop in on Don before I take you to the airport."

**...**

End, Chapter 24


	25. Chapter 25: One Bad Dude

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 25: One Bad Dude**

**…**

J. Everett Tuttle hadn't been able to reach Ralph Nardek for two days - a state of affairs that was both unusual, and annoying. Tuttle had spent about a week settling into an estate in Aruba, and Nardek was overdue. The plan was for him to oversee the liquidation of Tuttle's L.A. estate, and then join him in Aruba. Tuttle knew Nardek well enough he could trust him with his closest affairs; Nardek could decide what should be shipped to Aruba, what should go into storage, what could be done away with entirely...

At least, Tuttle had _believed_ he could trust Nardek.

Ralph was supposed to have arrived the day before - but he was late. Worse, he wasn't answering his phone. Worst of all, he still had control of most of Tuttle's money. Oh, accounts had been set up in Aruba that would last for years; but there was more money, and Tuttle wasn't even sure where it all was. Some of the legitimate funds were still in L.A. Other accounts existed in Switzerland, the Grand Caymans; the Bahamas...all of the details were in Nardek's head, and his computer. Tuttle had left the logistics to him, with the idea that once Nardek returned to Aruba, the two of them would set about consolidating the funds; Tuttle intended to become more involved, at that point.

His face darkened, and he frowned. Ralph Nardek knew that plan, just as he knew nearly every aspect of J. Everett Tuttle's business. His blood quickened in his veins as Tuttle considered the ridiculous: could he have made a mistake? Had he trusted Nardek too much?

Tuttle indulged himself with a few moments of controlled panic. Then his eyes narrowed as he focused on the cell phone lying silent on the desk in front of him. Most of his security force was either dead or in prison, and Nardek had gone silent - but he wasn't J. Everett Tuttle for nothing. He still had other contacts, and some of them were in L.A. He reached for the phone.

It was time to make some calls.

**...**

Don sat in the large chair next to his hospital bed and studied his father.

Alan was balanced on a folding chair just a few feet away from Don, hunched over a book of Sudoku puzzles. He felt Don's gaze and glanced up, frowning at the serious expression on his son's face. "Donnie?" Alan shifted in the chair as if to stand. "Are you all right, son?"

Don tended toward introspection; he usually played his cards close to the chest. But so much had happened in the last few months - and so much of it shouldn't have, _wouldn't_ have, if they had all just been a little more open and honest with each other. He looked intently at his father. "You should go see Charlie," he finally suggested. "You don't have to wait for me; you heard the nurse. I have to wait here until the doctor shows up."

Alan smiled. "It's no problem. Amita's with Charlie, and he's still sleeping all the time. He didn't even really wake up when you and I went to see him yesterday afternoon," he reminded his eldest. "Besides, I want to ask your doctor..."

Don interrupted him. "Dad, the doctor will probably release me later today. Most laparoscopic procedures don't require long hospital stays - or any hospital stay at all."

Alan arched an eyebrow. "My point exactly. You were in bad enough condition that they kept you here two nights; I want to make sure you're really good to go. Plus, I need to know what I need to do for you at home."

Don rolled his eyes. "What makes you think I'm coming to the Craftsman? Robin said she'll stay with me at the apartment."

"Robin has to work," Alan started, but Don interrupted again.

"So do you, old man," he said. "Either way, someone is going to end up taking some time off."

"I'm just a consultant," Alan countered. "Taking time off is easier for me."

Don sighed, and re-focused his train of thought. "Look, we'll talk about that later. I really think you should spend some time with Charlie."

"We'll go down together after the doctor sees you," replied Alan. He considered for a moment. "Or, if another hour goes by, I'll go down and spell Amita for awhile."

Don was silent for so long, his expression so serious, that Alan began to get a little nervous. Alan closed his puzzle book and leaned toward Don. "Do you know something I don't about your brother's condition?" he asked sharply.

_Truth-time_, thought Don. Aloud, he answered, "Charlie thinks you're mad at him."

Alan leaned back in his chair and smiled a tiny smile of relief. "That's ridiculous. He's barely been awake for two days."

Don shook his head. "He told me," he insisted. A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I shouldn't have let it go, but I was distracted by what he was doing on the computer... Anyway, he told me that you blamed him, back when I got stabbed, and more recently, when I fell down the stairs. He's convinced you think he pushed me - but Dad, it really was an accident!" His inflection was earnest. "I grabbed him, startled him - I've told you this already."

Alan was no longer smiling. "He thinks I blame him for your stabbing?"

Don nodded. "He says you've made it clear where he stands with you; did you say something? Either time? After the stabbing, or the fall?"

The color drained from Alan's face. "Did I?" he wondered. "I could have; I was so frightened. You almost _died_ when you were stabbed, and after the fall you were paralyzed...My God, what did I say?"

Don gentled his voice. "I don't know," he admitted, "but whatever it was, you never took it back; he said you never forgave him, and that you blame him for both accidents." His expression grew impossibly sad. "He says you're right to blame him, that he blames himself. Damn, Dad, I never should have let it go when he said that!"

Alan was on his feet, now. "Well, he's wrong," he announced vehemently, walking toward the door of Don's hospital room. "I don't care if he _is_ a genius; sometimes, your brother is an idiot."

**...**

Amita stood near the window in Charlie's room, and watched the parking lot.

"It's all right, Larry," she spoke into her phone. "Charlie's doesn't have a lot of specialized equipment hooked up to him - just some oxygen and a catheter - the nurse said I could use my cell phone."

"Then perhaps I could speak with Charles." Larry's voice floated from the receiver, oddly reassuring, even though he was thousands of miles away.

Amita glanced toward the bed, then back to the parking lot. "He's sleeping," she informed her fellow physicist. "He's been sleeping almost constantly since he got here. That's why they haven't removed the catheter, yet; they don't think he's alert enough to...take care of his own needs." She blushed, even though Larry couldn't see her through the cell phone.

"Well, I'm sure his body needs the sleep," he said. "It's amazing how our bodies heal themselves, given the time."

"Ummm," murmured Amita in agreement. "They said he's okay, considering the beating he took." She glanced at Charlie again, and winced. "I doubt there's an inch of his body that isn't some shade of purple, black, or green."

"I don't envy his waking," said Larry. "He'll be quite uncomfortable for some time." He clucked his tongue. "You say this Nardek person is still at large?"

"Yes," Amita confirmed. "Colby says they're watching the airports and bus stations... At least Audrey Paris isn't going anywhere.

"It's somewhat ironic," Larry mused. "Considering the condition in which she left her brother; now that we all know that Mark Vincent is _not_ in a coma, Audrey Paris _is_."

"I know," Amita replied, hesitated a moment, then changed the subject. "Larry...could you still use my help with the Hadron Collider project?"

For a moment, there was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. "Of course you're always welcome at CERN," Larry finally said. "But what about Charles?"

"He needs his rest right now," she answered bitterly. "I'm just not so sure he needs me."

"Amita, don't be ridiculous," Larry protested.

She gripped the cell tightly and ignored the single tear that ran down her face. "Things haven't been right between us for awhile," she admitted. "Charlie..." She found that she could not tell Larry about the drug abuse over the phone. "Never mind what Charlie did, and didn't do - I need some time away right now. I need some perspective."

"You're not considering calling off the wedding." Larry sounded incredulous.

Amita looked again at Charlie, and felt her heart break a little more as she remembered how happy they once were. "I don't know," she sniffed. "I'm not sure what I'm considering."

**...**

Ralph Nardek watched through the window of the shuttle bus as the hospital grew closer. _Maybe this is a mistake,_ he thought. _I've already wasted two days. I should have just grabbed as much of Tuttle's money as I could and gotten out of town._

The closer the hospital grew, the more apprehensive Nardek became. True, one of the Eppes brothers could have talked already, and Nardek was well aware that he was possibly already a wanted man. He had decided finally that he had no choice. Even if they had identified him to the police, he had to eliminate them as witnesses. He had spent the last two days making visits to the hospital, familiarizing himself with where the brother's rooms were, with possible hiding places, and with exits if he had to get out in a hurry. He couldn't be more ready. Now, however, as the time to act was approaching, he was seized by a fit of nerves.

The shuttle rolled to a gentle stop in front of the hospital's main entrance, and Nardek stood to join the queue of disembarking passengers. _Don't be ridiculous_, he ordered himself, focusing his memory on the picture of the brothers on the floor of Audrey's library. _Chances are, at least one of them is dead by now; you certainly didn't leave them in the shape to talk._ His thin lips curved in a smile as he straightened his posture and threw back his shoulders. _You're One Bad Dude, Ralphie,_ he told himself as he shuffled toward the door. _Tougher than an FBI agent, and smarter than J. Everett Tuttle._

As soon as the bus lumbered off, he took a quick glance around and stepped out of the line waiting to go through the front entrance, and sauntered around the building to a side door, which he knew was unequipped with metal detectors, and had a tendency to stick, and not latch when it shut. Sure enough, it was open, and with a quick glance around to make sure he wasn't observed, he slipped inside. He touched the bulge in his jacket created by his gun; it felt powerful; reassuring. _Oh, yeah_, he thought, glancing at his watch. _Just in time for visiting hours._

**...**

End, Chapter 25


	26. Chapter 26: Don't Be Ridiculous

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 26: Don't Be Ridiculous**

**…**

Alan regarded his sleeping son. Faint lines of pain were still etched into Charlie's face – which was oddly relatively unmarked, compared to the horrible bruising on his arms and torso. Alan found himself wondering how much of that pain was physical, and how much was emotional. His own heart felt heavy in his chest. What horrible things had he said to Charlie, to make his son believe the things Don had said Charlie believed? He couldn't even remember exactly what he'd said, but apparently it had had a profound impact on Charlie. How could Alan have missed so much? He had been surprised by the drug abuse, and now he was surprised to learn that his own son felt rejected by him. An even worse possibility occurred to Alan: maybe that feeling of rejection was part of the reason Charlie had been abusing his medication.

Alan sighed, realizing that Amita was talking to him. He forced his gaze away from Charlie and gave her a half-hearted smile. "I'm sorry, dear. What did you say?"

Amita stood in front of him, a slightly worried expression on her face. She touched his arm lightly. "I asked if everything is okay with Don. You seem upset."

Alan's smile became more genuine. "He's fine, dear. He'd be here right now, but he's waiting for the doctor to examine him one more time and then sign his release papers." He indicated Charlie's hospital bed with a slight inclination of his head. "I just wish Charlie was doing better. He's sleeping so much..."

Amita nodded her head. "I guess that's better than the alternative," she said, then hastened to explain at the shocked expression on Alan's face. "I mean, the bruising is so bad... If he was awake, he'd be in so much pain, don't you think?"

Alan's smile faded as he looked at his son again. "I think I'm not one to speak of Charlie's pain," he murmured.

Amita frowned, confused. "What?"

Alan looked back at her and shook his head. "Never mind," he answered, studying her face. "Amita, you look tired. I'm sorry; I should have been here earlier."

Amita blushed uncomfortably. "It's fine," she insisted. "I'm fine."

Alan took her arm and started walking her toward the door. "I'm here now," he announced forcefully, "and you need a break. Go home and get some rest, or at least go to the cafeteria and get something to eat. You've been here for hours...days. Too long."

Amita hesitated at the door, glancing back at Charlie and then looking at Alan. Suddenly, her eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around Alan's neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. Will you tell him that I'm sorry?"

Alan embraced her. "Hush, now," he soothed. "Charlie knows you love him. You're tired, sweetheart. Hush."

Amita broke away from Alan and took a step back, wiping at an eye with the back of her hand. "I am," she admitted. She looked away from both Alan and Charlie, looking almost longingly at the window. "I'm tired."

Alan smiled reassuringly and opened the door that led to the hospital corridor. "And it's no wonder," he said. "I want you to go home now, and get some rest. Don't worry; I'll stay with Charlie." His expression darkened. "I need to talk to him anyway."

Amita nodded silently, and began to step through the doorway. Abruptly, she spun on her heel and crossed quickly to the bed, leaning over to kiss Charlie tenderly on his stubbled cheek. Then, although he was incapable of returning a kiss, she pressed her lips gently to Charlie's lips. Alan felt tears pressing at the back of his own eyes as he watched the private moment. He saw Amita place a hand in Charlie's curls, whisper something into his ear, and then the young woman straightened and strode purposefully toward the door.

She stopped long enough to embrace Alan again. "Thank you," she said quietly. "You've been a wonderful father to me."

Alan smiled into her dark hair, and was still smiling when he ushered Amita out the door. "I'll see you later, dear," he said.

Amita regarded him sadly. "Goodbye, Alan," she answered.

Alan watched until Amita was safely on the elevator, then turned to approach Charlie's bed. "I should have been here earlier," he reproached himself, settling in the chair next to the bed. "For you, and for her. I apologize, son."

Charlie didn't answer, and Alan sighed again as he watched him sleep. Five minutes later, he cleared his throat and shifted in the chair. "Charlie," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the small room, "We've got to talk."

**...**

Trina Watson paused outside the door leading to Mark Vincent's hospital room. She wondered, not for the first time, exactly what the hell she was doing.

She had stopped being surprised by her own actions about halfway to Los Angeles, but occasionally it still hit her – how unlike her this all was. Before a few days ago, the riskiest thing she had ever done was to leave home. After two years at a community college in Texas, she had transferred into the nursing program at California State University in Sacramento. She had been 20 years old, chafing at the bit in her parents' house, and California had loomed exciting and romantic in her imagination. But when she had arrived, she had started working her way through school right away, and little time was left for the wild California life she and her parents had heard about. She had worked as a nursing assistant in a long-term care facility until she earned her degree – at which point she transferred to a sister facility in San Francisco. She had always been reliable, hard-working, willing to work double shifts...and two days ago, the dependable, longtime employee nurse, had requested an indefinite emergency leave of absence so that she could chase a former patient to L.A.

Unbelievable.

Trina's presence had not been requested, or apparently needed, in Los Angeles. Sure, she had been required to make an official statement – but she had done that three days ago, at the San Francisco Police Department. They had forwarded the statement to the FBI's L.A. office, and as far as she knew, that was it. If the agents in L.A. wanted more details, they hadn't said anything about it to her. She hadn't even known which hospital Mark had been taken to; one of the shocking things she had done was to use her status as a nurse to wrangle information out of multiple hospital switchboards, until she found him. Now she was standing outside his door, trying to figure out if was truly possible to fall in love with a man who could not speak, could not move, could not return her affections...for it she wasn't in love with Mark Vincent, then what insanity had brought her here?

The door suddenly opened, revealing two men, and she jumped back as they exited the room. "Excuse me," the taller one said, smiling. "We've just been establishing a computer connection for Mark." He stepped to the side, while his partner held the door open for her. "You picked an excellent time to visit. Mark will be able to communicate with you – just watch the computer screen; the laptop is on the overbed table, and right now he's all wired up."

"I understand he's due to be turned onto his side, soon," added the second man. "We showed the nursing staff how to unhook him then, so this really is excellent timing on your part."

Trina blushed, embarrassed without knowing exactly why. "Thank you," she answered softly, before allowing the men to usher her into Mark's room.

Mark stared up at her as the two researchers followed her back inside and spent a few moments showing her the computer and explaining the situation to her. Finally, assuring Mark that they would be back, the men took their leave.

When she was alone with Mark, Trina took a deep breath. The she smiled at him, a little nervously. "Hey, 55," she said. "Bear sends his regards."

**...**

Alan stood and leaned over Charlie's bed. "Son," he said gently, "wake up, now." Charlie didn't move, so Alan stroked Charlie's cheek and spoke a little more firmly. "Come on, son," he ordered. "I want you to wake up, now. Just for a few minutes, and then you can go back to sleep." A low moan was Alan's answer, and for a moment, the father felt a little guilty for waking his son. Maybe he should let sleeping sons lie – but he had done that already, and for far too long.

He took his hand from Charlie's face and moved to pick up Charlie's hand – the one closest to Alan, which was blessedly free of any intravenous lines. Charlie's hand was cold, which surprised Alan a little: much of his arm was bruised, and obviously swollen. In fact, much of Charlie was bruised and swollen, and Alan winced as he held the limp hand in both of his own. "Charlie?"

Charlie's eyes opened in a narrow squint. His gaze darted around the room for a bit – looking for Amita, Alan figured – before he seemed to focus on Alan. Alan smiled. "Hello, son. It's nice to see you."

Charlie's mouth was dry and his voice raspy with disuse. "Can't see very well," he said.

Alan felt a jolt of fear. Had Charlie's good eye been injured? Perhaps the doctors had missed it. "Do your eyes hurt?" he asked.

Charlie frowned. He swallowed, and tugged his hand from Alan's grasp, wrapping both arms around his midsection. "I can't go to school today," he answered, letting his eyes drift shut again. "Tell Mom I don't feel good."

Alan stared at him, shocked. "What?"

Charlie moaned again. "I might throw up," he warned.

Alan looked around for an emesis basin. Seeing nothing, he dashed across the small room and threw open the bathroom door. There was an emesis basin sitting next to the bathroom sink, and he grabbed it just as he heard the unmistakable sound of retching coming from Charlie's bed. "Hang on," he called, pausing to grab and dampen a hand towel. "Hang on, Charlie!"

Alan was so intent on his mission that he didn't even hear the hospital room door open. He hurried out of the bathroom and almost ran over Charlie's doctor, who lunged back in surprise and dropped the chart he was carrying. "Sorry," Alan huffed. "Charlie's sick."

The doctor murmured in reply and bent to retrieve the chart. When he straightened, he looked quickly at the chart, then hurried to the bed to feel Charlie's forehead. "How long has he been ill?" he asked Alan.

"Just this once," Alan answered, tenderly dabbing at Charlie's face with the towel. "I should have let him keep sleeping, but he's been asleep for so long... I had a hard time waking him up, and then he was confused, talking about going to school..." He glanced at the doctor and shrugged. "That's not unusual, since he _is_ a teacher, but I think he meant going as a student. He asked me to tell his mother he didn't feel good, and Margaret's been gone over five years."

The doctor was standing on the opposite side of the bed from Alan, and Alan saw the man glance down, toward Charlie's catheter bag, then back to the chart in his hand. He frowned. "Output hasn't been charted in almost 8 hours," he said. "Did the nurse just forget to write it down, or is this really all he's put out in that time?"

Alan felt another stab of guilt. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've been spending a lot of time with my other son. Charlie's fiancée was here with him, but I sent her home to get some sleep." The doctor, still frowning, bent to take a closer look at the bag. Alan's hands slowed at their task – Charlie seemed to be asleep again anyway. He balled up the towel in his hand, and took a step back. "Is something wrong?" he asked anxiously.

The doctor stood again. He began to scribble in the chart. "I need some blood work," he mumbled, turning to hurry toward the door, ignoring Alan. "Kidney function tests. If this is what I think it is..."

The door was swinging shut behind him, but Alan called after him. "What?" he shouted, following in the doctor's footsteps. "What do you think it is?" He paused when he reached the door, glancing back at his son. Then he chased the doctor down the hall. "Charlie needs clean sheets!"

**...**

End, Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27: Visiting Hours

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 27: Visiting Hours**

**…**

Don rose from the chair next to the bed with a sigh of relief as the doctor exited the room. Released – he was a free man – or at least he would be when the nurse came with his release papers and instructions. He stretched, wincing a little at the twinge near his largest incision site. It wasn't really painful – the incisions were small and well on the way to knitting – the muscles there just felt a little tight. The worst part (by far) was the painful bloating caused by the gases used to inflate his abdomen so that the surgeon had enough room for his high-tech instruments. The resulting pressure made Don feel heavy and slow, but the doctor assured him that the bloating would dissipate over the next few days. He knew from his previous stabbing that the tight feeling around the small incisions was also normal, and would subside with time. Now, if they could just get Charlie healed up, and find Nardek…

No sooner had the back flap of the doctor's white coat swirled around the corner when Alan appeared in the doorway, nearly catapulting through it. He stopped abruptly when he saw Don, and Don could see clearly that he was upset. "What is it?"

"Something's wrong with Charlie," Alan said shakily. "I went into see him – he woke, but he sounded delirious, and he got sick. The doctor was checking his catheter – he said something about needing blood work and nearly ran out of the room. Something's wrong."

Don could feel a sinking sensation in his gut. "Did you ask him what?"

Alan shook his head, unhappily. "He headed off down the hall – I'm not sure where he went – I just," he swayed a little on his feet, and ran a hand over his face.

Don stepped toward him, concern on his face. "Dad, are you okay?"

Alan took a breath, and dropped his hand. "Yes – just – upset, and a little tired. I haven't gotten much sleep the last couple of days."

Don took his arm, and steered him toward the door. "Look, let's head down to Charlie's room, and wait for the doctor to come back. I'm sure he's just being careful – it's probably nothing serious."

Alan resisted. "Are you allowed to leave?"

"The doctor released me," said Don firmly. "I just have to sign paperwork. I'll stop at the nurses' station and tell them where I am. I can sign paperwork in Charlie's room just as easily as I can here."

**….**

Ralph Nardek slipped into the hospital corridor and glanced around, mentally referencing the room numbers that he'd gotten from the information desk during his first visit to the hospital two days before – the room numbers for the Eppes brothers. The corridor was empty, but down the hall there was a nurses' station. Don Eppes' room would be around the corner from that, but Ralph knew from the layout that he could go straight ahead another several feet, and there would be another cross hall. If he went that way, made a right, then another right, he wouldn't have to go past the nurses' station to get to Eppes' room. The fewer people who saw him, the better. He fingered the silenced pistol under his jacket. He'd get in and out, nearly noiselessly. He needed to get the agent first – Ralph had left him in better shape than his brother, so Don Eppes was more likely to wake earlier, plus, he was the bigger threat on a witness stand, with his agent credentials and cool, confident demeanor. Definitely – Ralph had to take him out first.

He stepped forward, starting down the hallway, when the sound of voices stopped him and he stepped back and peered around the corner toward the nurses' station. At the other end of the cross hall, he saw two figures appear – and one of them was none other than the object of his hunt, Don Eppes.

"Damn," Ralph swore, as he eased back behind the corner, and then took another quick peek. Eppes was dressed in street clothes, walking on his own – unfortunately, he was not only awake, but undoubtedly had been released from the hospital. Eppes' voice came clearly down the hall, and Nardek listened closely as the agent explained that he'd just been released, and was going to his brother's room with his father. Ralph heard the nurse at the desk protest – apparently it was against hospital protocol for the agent to leave his room before signing his release papers, and she insisted that he should be transported in a wheelchair to the hospital exit. She was fighting a losing battle – Don Eppes was polite, but firm. He was going to his brother's room, and that was final. The nurse sighed, capitulating, and told him she would send his paperwork to his brother's room, and the conversation ended. Nardek chanced another glimpse to be sure they weren't coming his way – but no, they were heading down the hallway parallel to his, toward the elevators, which were back the way Ralph had come, and around the corner.

He hesitated for just a moment, weighing his options. He had already lost one opportunity to get Don Eppes before he was discharged, but maybe the situation had created another. Perhaps he could get them together, in one room…

He straightened, turned, and walked back down the corridor, pausing at the end and peering around the corner to his left, toward the elevators. He caught just a glimpse of the agent as he stepped inside one of them behind his father, and the doors closed behind him. Ralph waited a few seconds to make sure the elevator doors had closed completely, and then turned into the corridor and headed for the stairs.

**…**

Don took one look at Charlie as he stepped into the room, and felt his heart clutch. His younger brother was lying motionless, his eyes closed, his skin pale under the bruises. He looked worse than Don remembered him, instead of better. Don stepped forward, with Alan behind him. "Charlie?"

Charlie remained silent, motionless. Don looked at Alan. "You said he was awake, before?"

Alan nodded, miserably. "He sounded delirious – he said to tell Mom he didn't feel good, and he wasn't going to school." A strickened look crossed his face. "He said he couldn't see too well – did he get hit in the eye?"

Don frowned and shook his head, with a glance at Charlie. "No – Nardek seemed to stay away from his face, for the most part. Maybe they took his contact lens out – if he's not thinking straight, he might not remember that he needs glasses now."

Silence descended, and Don sighed. "Well, we might as well sit and wait until the doctor comes back." He pulled up a chair, and Alan did the same.

The wait was interminable. Don kept hearing voices and footsteps out in the hall; it seemed to be a busy corridor, and every time he heard someone, he was hoping it was the doctor. Finally, there was sound of rubber wheels on tile; the sound of the door pushing open; and a man's voice saying, "Excuse me."

Don turned to see a technician wheeling equipment into the room. "What's going on?"

The man glanced at him and Alan as he headed toward Charlie. "The doctor's ordered dialysis – I'm here to hook him up."

Alan looked stunned. "Dialysis – what, why? Were his kidneys damaged?"

"You'll have to discuss that with the doctor," said the technician shortly. "I'm not allowed to discuss a patient's condition." He looked up from the equipment, caught the expressions on their faces, and his sour look softened. "Look, I heard Doc down in the hallway – he's on his way back up. I'm sure he'll let you know why he ordered this."

A few moments later, a nurse bustled in with an IV bag, and behind her was Dr. Wolf. He glanced at Charlie, then at Alan and Don as they rose from their seats. Wolf nodded at them. "Come with me," he said quietly.

He led them down the busy hallway to relatively quiet corner, a tiny waiting area with two chairs that was currently unoccupied. "Charlie has some complications," Wolf stated quietly. "He has a condition called rhabdomyolysis. It can occur as a result of extensive injury, such as the beating Charlie sustained, or to victims of crush accidents. The damaged muscle tissue releases breakdown products into the bloodstream, such as myoglobin, that are harmful to the kidneys. Charlie's kidneys are under siege right now from those substances, and are not operating properly. Treatment is dialysis, additional intravenous fluids, and diuretics."

"How serious is this?" asked Alan, anxiously.

Wolf hesitated. "It can be fatal," he said finally. "It can result in kidney failure, coma and death."

Don felt an odd sensation, as if the floor was dropping away beneath his feet. He had to wrench his attention back to the doctor to catch his next words.

"However," Wolf was saying, "we are hoping we have caught it in time. The next 24 hours will be critical. We think – Mr. Eppes, are you all right?"

Don jerked his head toward Alan. His father was ghastly pale, swaying on his feet, and Dr. Wolf grabbed his arm and immediately guided him into one of the waiting area chairs.

Alan took a deep shaky breath, and waved him off. "I'm all right," he said. "Just overtired."

Wolf had pulled out a pen light, and he bent and shone it into Alan's eyes, then grabbed his wrist and took a pulse. "Perhaps," he said. "I am going to insist, however, that you go down to the ER and get checked out."

"No!" said Alan sharply, with a flash of his normal strength. "I'm fine. I'm not leaving my son."

"We can make it quick," said Wolf. "You won't be doing him any good if you crash in his room – if he does awaken, it will upset him, and even if he doesn't, it will pull away resources that should be taking care of him to care for you. I can call ahead to the ER and get them run the checks quickly – if you pass, you can come back up here."

Don remembered his father swaying on his feet in his room, just moments before. "He's right, Dad," he said quietly. "You need to be checked. I'll stay here with Charlie."

"I'm calling for a wheelchair, now," said Wolf firmly, and strode away before Alan had a chance to object.

Alan's shoulders slumped and he stared at the floor, defeated, his eyes watering. "He could be dying," he said brokenly. "He could die thinking that I hated him."

"No, Dad, no," Don said gently, sinking into a chair beside him and laying a hand on his shoulder. "He never thought that – I think he thought you were disappointed in him."

"That's bad enough," said Alan. "And I think it's worse than that – you told me he said he 'knows where he stands with me.' It implies something more – serious – than mere disappointment."

Don sighed. "Look, Dad. All of that is conjecture and none of it is helpful. You need to take a deep breath, relax a little, and go get checked. Maybe even take a nap while they run your tests. Charlie is being well taken care of, and I'll be with him. Just try to think positively, okay?"

An orderly was approaching with a wheelchair, and Alan finally raised his head and looked at Don. "You're right," he sighed. "I'm going to get myself straightened around, and then I'll be back up. I'm sorry."

He looked suddenly very old and so defeated that Don's heart twisted. "Don't be sorry, Dad," he said quietly. "Just get rested up, so you can talk to him when he wakes up, okay?"

He watched as Alan got into the wheelchair and the orderly wheeled him away, and then stood, pulling out his cell phone as he strode down the hallway to Charlie's room.

**…..**

David stepped quietly up to Colby's desk, caught his eye, and indicated the conference room with jerk of his head. "Got a minute?"

Colby eyed him warily, but nodded and rose. "Yeah."

They stepped into the conference room, and David shut the door and took a seat. Colby hesitated, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet uncertainly, before taking a chair himself, across the table from David. He sprawled in it, one muscular arm over the back, his laid back stance slightly insolent, and a bit defensive. David knew that he was at least partly responsible for both attitudes.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

Colby didn't change positions, but his jaw jutted angrily. "You don't owe me shit," he said. "If you want to apologize to someone, apologize to Don and Charlie. If you hadn't been so intent on arguing with me, maybe we would have gotten to them sooner."

David grimaced at the harsh words, and raised a hand in acknowledgment. "You're right. Don't think I don't know that. I've let myself get too personally involved with the group to be a good leader. That's why I called you in here."

The anger faded slightly from Colby's face, replaced by quick flash of confusion, which he immediately tried to hide. "Yeah?"

"You were a good partner, Colby – the best," said David, quietly. "No matter where I end up, I won't forget that, or the time when we were friends. I did a good job of screwing that up – you were just trying to do your job, both when you were infiltrating Chinese intelligence, and when you were assisting Don and Charlie in the Tuttle case. I had a problem with being left out, both times – but that's exactly what it was – my problem, not yours. I just wanted you to know that."

Colby was frowning now, and he waved a hand abstractedly. "I know that – you think I don't know that? But what's this 'no matter where I end up' stuff?"

"I've taken a job with the Bureau in D.C. I just got done talking with A.D. Wright, and after him, I wanted you to be the first to know."

Colby stared at him. "Washington?"

David nodded, soberly. "It's a good job – I'll supervise a task team that works with the DEA on drug cases."

Colby still hadn't lost his dumbfounded look. "You supervise a team _here_." He shut his mouth with a snap, and in a flash, the look of surprise was gone, replaced by hurt and resentment. He stood. "Sure, okay. Go ahead and bail." He stalked toward the door.

David rose. "Colby - ,"

Colby whirled. "It's a fine time to leave," he snapped. "Nardek's still on the loose, and we aren't even close to nailing Tuttle. Two of your friends and teammates are in the hospital because of them, and you're leaving?" Colby's cell phone buzzed and he snatched at it while he was talking, and put it to his ear. "Yeah, Don." The look of anger faded from his face, and was replaced by one of concern. "What?"

"What is it?" asked David.

Colby shot him a scornful look and ignored his question. He turned on his heel and opened the door, striding out into the room, still on his cell phone. "Yeah, look, I was heading over there anyway. I'll be right there."

David watched him go, with a sinking feeling. He'd been so certain, just moments ago when he talked to Wright, that he was making the right decision. Colby's angry response should have reinforced that opinion, but oddly, it didn't. Suddenly, David felt as though he was making a huge mistake. He tried to put that out of his mind, and headed for his desk to work on paperwork. He toyed with the idea of calling Don directly to see why he had called Colby, but somehow, he already felt like an outsider. He wouldn't stoop to prying. If it was important for him to know, Don would tell him. He pulled up the Tuttle and Audrey Montague case files, and began to go over them once more. In spite of what Colby had said, he wasn't abandoning the Nardek case – he had two weeks before he left, and he intended to clear up as much as he could before then.

As he sat at his desk, he purposely averted his eyes from the office entrance area, where his partner - and once closest friend - was disappearing between the elevator doors.

**….**

Ralph Nardek loitered around the corner, just out of sight, and stepped quickly into the doorway of an empty room as a wheelchair rounded with corner. For a moment his heart leapt with fear as he recognized the Eppes patriarch, but he relaxed as he noted that the agent wasn't with him. Don Eppes would recognize him, but his father wouldn't. He lounged in the doorway as the wheelchair rolled past, idly wondering why the old man was sitting in it. He was hunched over, and looked tired, defeated. Maybe he had collapsed, or was feeling ill – probably from the stress of what Nardek had done to his sons. Ralph smiled.

The wheelchair whisked past, and neither the orderly or Eppes senior paid him any attention. Ralph stayed where he was until they rounded the corner, and then padded down the hallway on silent rubber soles. It was time to pay a visit to the room of Dr. Charles Eppes.

**…**

End, Chapter 27


	28. Ch 28: I Didn't Think You Had It In You

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 28: I Didn't Think You Had It in You**

**…**

J. Everett Tuttle spoke into the telephone receiver. "And you say the funds were transferred four days ago? And the name on the account? I see. No, that was not an approved transfer. I will have my lawyers look into it, but in the meantime, I would contact the bank that holds Nardek's account and tell them it was an unauthorized transfer. I will be in touch." He hung up the receiver, and tented his fingers, brooding for a moment, and then a slow, malicious smile spread over his face.

"Ralphie, Ralphie," he chuckled dryly to himself. "I underestimated you. I didn't think you had it in you."

He had spent the last few hours on the phone – it was still afternoon in L.A., although it was well past dark where Tuttle sat, in the Caribbean islands. After several phone calls to a series of contacts, Tuttle had confirmed that Nardek was up to something – he wasn't sure exactly what, but it apparently had involved kidnapping of the Eppes brothers. According to his sources, Nardek was also being sought for attempted murder, and a clandestine transfer of Tuttle's own funds to an account that Nardek had set up, in another name. It also sounded as though Audrey was involved, and that something had gone wrong. Audrey was in the hospital, according to Tuttle's contacts, and so were the Eppes brothers. Nardek was nowhere to be found, and the last contact had conjectured that he'd skipped town.

"Skipped town with my money," growled Tuttle, his smile fading at the thought. As amusing as it was to picture Ralph Nardek as a hit man, the feeling of levity was overshadowed by that thought. It was an uncomfortable sensation – that someone like Nardek had had the audacity to cross him – as was the realization that the Eppes brothers were yet again involved. They must have found out what Nardek was up to, or at least had been getting close; otherwise, Ralph wouldn't have tried to take them out. That meant that the Eppes brothers were still nosing around Tuttle's affairs, and he was certain that they would never let him be, as long as he – and they – were still alive. Tuttle knew how to fix that.

"First things first," he mused to himself, reaching for the phone once again. Ralph Nardek had to be eliminated – for one thing, he had access to Tuttle's money, and as long as he was free, Tuttle's accounts would be at risk. For another, and perhaps more importantly, Nardek had crossed a line that no one had ever dared cross before – he had purposely gone against J. Everett Tuttle. Not only was vengeance desirable, it was a necessity – Tuttle's power and influence would vanish if others thought that he could be exploited. Yes, he would take care of Ralph Nardek first, but he had made up his mind - the Eppes brothers would need to be eliminated once and for all. Not next week, perhaps not next month, but soon.

He stretched, flexed his shoulders, and reached for the phone. He had been thinking about retiring to the islands, but after a few days there he was already bored. As infuriating as Nardek's actions had been, they were almost welcome, because they gave Tuttle a reason to come out of semi-retirement and get back in business – and it felt good.

**…..**

Amita stood with her bag in front of the airline ticket counter – not in line – she hadn't gotten that far yet. She'd been there for a half hour, and had approached the queue more than once, before suddenly wheeling and striding away. She had to look deranged, she thought, pacing back and forth, dragging the large, clunky suitcase. The luggage was on wheels, but it was still cumbersome, heavy with what she hoped was enough clothing for an extended stay with the CERN team in Switzerland. At the moment, she really didn't care what it contained – she'd packed haphazardly, impulsively, driven by a growing urge to escape. She wondered what Larry would think of her when she stepped off the plane. That, of course, was providing she got on the plane to begin with.

There was a flight that left in an hour, and she still had to clear the security checkpoint. Thank God the visa stamp on her passport was current – she had visited Switzerland over a year ago, but the visa was good for three years. Still, it took time to get her passport checked, get her luggage checked, and the minutes were ticking away. She had to make a decision.

The absurdity of the situation hit her abruptly, and she shook her head. "What on earth are you doing?" she muttered to herself. This was crazy, this sudden urge to hop a plane to Switzerland. Normally, she would never consider leaving Charlie like this without agreement between the two of them, but she knew she couldn't stay right now. It hurt too much to see him in pain – again – she'd almost lost him weeks before, and she couldn't take the agonizing worry anymore. Would he always be in danger, as long as he worked with his brother – as long as Tuttle was still a free man? She wasn't sure she could take much more of the anxiety, the terror of losing him. To compound matters, it seemed as though he was drifting away. She didn't really know him anymore – her mild-mannered cheerful professor had turned into someone who ran off impulsively into the wilds of Idaho with his brother, pursued by criminals, without a word to her. Someone who conducted unsanctioned investigations in secret, who apparently had been abusing painkillers. Someone who didn't talk to her anymore, about any of it. He was safe now; although it would take him some time to heal, some time before he would be strong enough for a serious conversation. She could use some of that time to get her own thoughts straight.

"Um, excuse me, are you in line?"

Amita came back to her senses with a start. The line had dwindled away, and without realizing it, she had drifted toward the opening in the roped-off area that designated the start of the line. Another young woman was standing there, waiting to go in, and Amita was blocking the way.

Amita smiled apologetically. "Yes," she said firmly. She pulled her bag behind her, navigated her way through the ropes and poles, and stepped forward to the counter.

**…..**

Ralph Nardek had to wait several minutes before he made his move.

There were too many people in the hallway to act immediately, but he used the cover they provided to ease past Charlie Eppes' room once, and steal a quick glance. The professor appeared to be out cold, and didn't look good. He had more than one tube protruding from his body; one of them leading into what Ralph guessed was a dialysis machine. That was confirmed as Don Eppes' voice floated through the doorway. He was on his cell phone, turned away from Nardek and speaking quietly. Ralph caught the words 'rhabdomyolysis,' and 'serious,' and 'dialysis,' before he passed by, out of earshot. The trip past the doorway was risky but it was necessary; Ralph knew he had to be in and out quickly with a minimum of noise. Although he was more familiar with a handgun than his old boss Tuttle would have thought, he still wasn't sure he could take out several people, especially if at least one of them was a trained agent. Two, however, he could handle, especially when one of them looked comatose. His gun had a silencer – two quick, quiet shots and it would be done.

He circled around the hallway, which ran in a rectangle around a block of rooms and the elevators, and came back to his observation point down the hall from his target. Eventually, the hall cleared. Ralph loosened the gun holstered under his jacket and took a deep breath. It was time.

**…**

Don disconnected his last call, to Liz. He'd called Colby, Robin, and Liz, in that order, letting them know that Charlie had taken a turn for the worse. He'd spent some extra time on the phone with Robin, also informing her that he was being released, although he had no intentions of leaving the hospital as he originally had planned – not while Charlie was so sick, not until he had some assurance that the dialysis was doing what it was supposed to do, and that his brother was starting to improve. Robin, like Colby, assured him that she would be there right away, although Don had told both of them that their presence wasn't necessary, neither of them would take 'no' for an answer. Don tried Amita too, with no luck. She had probably gone home to get some sleep, he assumed, and so he dialed Robin back to ask her to stop by the Craftsman and inform Amita of the latest development. He did all of that with an outwardly cool efficiency, although inside, his gut was in a knot, twisted by sickening, pervasive worry. All the while, he kept one eye on Charlie, who was lying motionless in the bed.

As Don disconnected his cell phone, that changed. He'd been about to call David, but Charlie's eyelids fluttered open and a soft moan escaped him. The sound went straight to Don's heart, and in one quick stride, he was next to the bed, shoving his cell phone in the pocket of his jeans as he went. He sank into a chair next to Charlie's bed, leaning over him so that Charlie could see his face.

Charlie blinked once or twice, then seemed to focus. "Don?"

Don smiled encouragingly, or at least he hoped he did; his face felt tight. "Hi, Chuck."

Charlie blinked again, a slight frown creased his brow, and he mumbled, "Whaddarya doin' here?" His voice was faint and breathy, his words, slurred.

"Trying to figure out when you're gonna get your ass up," Don answered. He kept his voice light, teasing, but even he could hear the suppressed worry in it. Charlie looked so weak; his chest was rising and falling noticeably. It seemed as though it took all of his strength simply to breathe.

Charlie's only reply was a soft 'huh,' and Don wasn't sure whether it was truly a response or just another soft grunt of pain. Charlie's eyelids drifted shut again, then he forced them apart. His eyes widened then, and he opened his mouth. He looked as though he was about to speak, and Don leaned forward to catch the words. He was concentrating so hard, he didn't hear the nearly noiseless footsteps approaching from behind. He sensed, rather than heard, the presence next to him. That, and Charlie's shocked wide-eyed stare, made him whirl around at the last minute.

A gun was pointed at his head, and he jerked his neck sideways and brought up his arm at the same time, just as it went off. There was no loud report, just the soft 'thwup' of a silencer and the simultaneous thud of a bullet burying itself in wall on the other side of Charlie's bed. Almost at the same time, Don registered that the person holding it was Ralph Nardek, and then he was shoved bodily sideways.

He was off balance in his half-twisted position, and he went sprawling over the chair, landing hard on his side on the floor. He immediately began to scramble to his feet, but Nardek's voice and the sight that confronted him made him freeze where he was, on his side.

"Don't move."

Nardek had moved to Charlie's bedside, and had the silencer pushed hard against Charlie's neck. His eyes, however, were on Don. "Don't move," he said again. "Not unless you want to watch him go first."

Don shot a quick glance toward the door, hoping a passerby would see what was happening. Unfortunately, it was closed; Nardek had swung it quietly shut behind him as he entered, although it didn't appear to be latched – Nardek apparently hadn't wanted to chance making any kind of noise. At least it was slightly open; maybe someone outside would hear… Don darted another quick glance at Charlie. Charlie was staring at him with a frightened expression, and Don saw the reason for that – Nardek was swinging the muzzle of the gun away from Charlie, and toward him. Nardek was just bringing it into position when two things happened.

Charlie was weak, and very ill, but that didn't mean he was immobile. His left arm flailed toward Nardek's, hitting it and forcing it upward just as Nardek squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the wall high above Don's head, and he began to scramble desperately to his feet, trying to regain them before Nardek could take aim again.

Nardek snarled at Charlie and stepped sideways out of his reach. He had just turned his head to look at Don again, who was only halfway up, when someone hurtled through the door. It flew open with a bang, and Colby Granger barreled across the room like a truck. Nardek turned his head in surprise, and Don took advantage of his brief hesitation. He hadn't quite made it to his feet but he charged, too, both he and Colby converging on Nardek, hitting him at the same time. Don came in low, up under Nardek's shooting arm, forcing it upwards, and Colby grabbed his wrist and held on. Their momentum carried them right into Charlie's bed, and Don heard the gun discharge again, and then a grunt of pain from Charlie as they landed on his midsection. They bounced off and onto the floor, wrestling with Nardek briefly, and the gun discharged once more before Colby, his face a mask of rage, squeezed hard, and the gun fell from Nardek's numbed hand.

Don kicked the gun out of reach, and they wrestled Nardek onto his face. Colby straddled him, fishing out handcuffs and cuffing Nardek's hand behind his back, as Don rose slowly, a little unsteadily, to his feet. He became aware that a nurse stood in the doorway, staring stunned at the spectacle. A voice on an intercom floated through the hallways, calling for security, as others gathered in the doorway. Dr. Wolf was pushing through the crowd, his face filled with concern, as Don turned to look at Charlie.

Charlie's eyes were closed tightly, and his breathing had become ragged. What nearly stopped Don's heart, however, was the blood –it was everywhere, dark red splotches on the bedclothes, on Charlie's gown. Don stood staring stupidly as Wolf rushed past him, then looked at Colby wildly, then down at himself, then finally at Nardek. They were all relatively clean – none of them had been hit. The blood was coming from Charlie.

**…..**

End Chapter 28

_**(A/N: Be careful what you ask for...)**_


	29. Chapter 29: Everything Will Be All Right

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 29: Everything Will Be All Right**

**…**

Alan heard a soft tap on the sliding glass partition and sighed as he looked toward the entrance. Why did the nurses even bother to shut the damn thing? It seemed as if someone was in his exam bay all the time.

He glanced unhappily at the bag of saline hanging from the intravenous pole attached to the hospital bed. The bag was still half full, so his visitor probably wasn't here to unhook him. Probably some tech after more blood. By the time they were through with him, Alan would be anemic on top of everything else. He frowned toward the closed curtain on the interior of the exam cubicle. Might as well get it over with. "Yes," he called despondently. "Come in."

The door slid in its track, the curtain was pulled back, and Robin's concerned face peeked around the edge. ""Alan?" Her voice held a disbelieving tone.

Alan's face relaxed and he struggled to sit up. "Robin! Sweetheart, what are you doing here?"

She brushed past the curtain, shaking her head. "Alan, you just stay where you are!" She glanced around the exam cubicle. "I can't believe where you are!"

Alan gave up his struggle and sank back onto the pillow. A soft snort escaped him. "You and me both. I told that doctor I was fine. I told them all. Did Donny call you?"

Robin took a deep breath. "Not since he told me that Charlie had developed complications. When Visitor Registration asked who I was here to see, I said 'Eppes' - and they wanted to know which one! You could have knocked me over with a feather when they said Alan was in the ER and Charles was being transported to CT!"

Alan allowed a small grin. "Robin, dear, anyone could knock you over with a feather any day of the week. I keep telling you to eat more."

She blushed. "Hey. I held my own against Audrey Paris, didn't I?" Her blush deepened when she realized what she had said. "I should have killed the bitch," she whispered.

Alan was reaching out to take her hand in his own when there was another, sharper, rap on the door. Before he could even answer, the curtain billowed again and Colby Granger strode in, effectively filling the tiny room, pocketing his FBI credentials. He stopped abruptly when he saw Robin. "Oh. Hey, Robin. I wondered why they gave me such a hard time out there - I finally had to break out the badge. I didn't realize Alan already had a visitor."

Alan glanced from one to the other. "Thank you both for coming," he started. "But you should both go upstairs and check on the boys. I'm feeling fine." He lifted his arm and flopped the IV tubing. "A little rest, a little happy juice, I'm as good as new. I'll be getting out of here myself as soon as this damn bag empties. I don't care who tries to stop me."

Colby and Robin both hesitated, and then spoke in unison, as if it were rehearsed. "I've got some bad news."

Alan was suddenly very glad he was lying down.

**...**

Rabbi Shulman was leaving the hospital, after spending the afternoon with his son. He was headed for the elevator when he saw a rather forlorn-looking Don sitting alone in a small waiting area.

The rabbi quickly altered his course. Soon, he was lowering himself into one of the other two chairs available. "Shalom," he said quietly.

Don had been staring intently at his own lap, but now he looked up quickly. A quick succession of expressions passed over his face: relief, guilt, worry. "Rabbi Shulman," he finally said. "How is Aaron?"

The Rabbi smiled. "My Aaron lives, thank you. The doctors speak of long-term consequences and rehabilitation; they make dire predictions. But I do not care if my Aaron can no longer be a surgeon. I care only that he lives." He saw a troubled look creep back into Don's face. "Besides," the rabbi added. "How do you say it? The cards, they are not all counted yet?"

The ghost of a smile played at Don's mouth. "Something like that, yeah."

The rabbi nodded. "These men and women, these _experts_, they do not know my Aaron. He will surprise them all." Don just nodded silently, and looked back at his lap.

Rabbi Shulman waited a few moments. "You are being released?" he finally asked. Don nodded again, not even bothering to look up. "And how is your brother?" persisted the rabbi in a soft voice.

This time Don did look up, his eyes growing suspiciously moist. "Okay," he said. He cleared his throat, and shrugged. "The man who tried to kill us came after us in the hospital. There was a struggle...I thought..." His voice trailed away.

The rabbi leaned forward in his chair and lightly touched Don's knee. "This man was stopped?"

Don nodded his head vigorously. "Yeah, yes. Colby, from my team, he showed up at exactly the right time..." His eyes darkened, and his voice barely contained his rage. "Nardek had a gun. It discharged, and it looked like he hit Charlie- he was bleeding – for a minute, I thought -,"

The rabbi drew in a breath. "_'Looked like'_ you say. But your brother was not shot?"

Don shook his head and stood abruptly. "He's on dialysis - Charlie might still die because of the beating he took from Nardek. In the struggle, we all hit the bed, and did some damage to the dialysis port in Charlie's arm. That's why there was so much blood." He turned away from the rabbi and walked to a window a few feet away. He stood and gazed at the hospital parking lot below.

Rabbi Shulman stood slowly, and walked to stand slightly behind Don. "Where is your brother now?" he asked.

Don kept his eyes trained on the parking lot. "They took him to do another scan. Then they have to see if they can do something with the port."

Both men were silent for almost a full minute. Finally, Don spoke. "I don't understand, Rabbi."

Rabbi Shulman was patient. "What, my son?"

Don sighed. "After all the talks you and I have had. All the work I've done. Why is it that all I want right now is to see Ralph Nardek's dead body?"

The rabbi stroked his beard, and watched small figures make their way toward the main entrance. "The covenant with Abraham and his descendants implies a future life. A life which will demand certain retributions."

Don turned his head to look at the Rabbi. "Is that enough for you? Some vague theological promise that someday, Nardek will get what's coming to him?" Don's voice grew slightly louder, and was tinged with anger. "After what happened to your son, how can you not know this feeling?"

Rabbi Shulman's eyes filled with unshed tears as he smiled sadly at Don. "You do not understand," he answered quietly. "I know all too well the need for vengeance that blackens your soul. It is I who will suffer retribution."

Don's eyes widened. "What the he... why? What are you talking about?"

Rabbi Shulman looked back toward the window, and Don could barely hear the whispered reply. "When Aaron's life was still uncertain...I, also, wished his shooter dead, just as you now wish ill for this man who has harmed your brother. There is evil in my heart."

Don's eyes softened and he moved a step closer to the rabbi. "No," he contradicted. "There is an all-consuming love for your child. Surely God, if there is one, understands such love."

"We shall see," murmured the rabbi. "We shall see."

**...**

Colby glanced quickly at Robin. "You heard about Nardek? Did Don call you?"

This time Robin and Alan spoke in unison. "Nardek!"

Alan again struggled to sit up. "Did you find him?"

Colby moved to help Alan dangle on the edge of the bed, then sat down next to him. "He sort-of found us," he admitted.

Robin crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes. "He was here, wasn't he?"

Alan gasped, and Colby winced. "Look, it's not really BAD news - I mean, we got him, and everything. Nobody got shot."

Alan stretched his IV line dangerously taut as he clutched Colby's arm. "My God. Nardek brought a gun into the hospital?"

Colby studied Robin's face for a moment before he answered. "We got him," he reiterated. "Charlie's dialysis port was...displaced...so the docs are dealing with that. Don's upstairs waiting for him; I'll take you there as soon as they say you can go." He raised a questioning eyebrow at Robin. "You said you had bad news. If Don didn't call you, and you didn't know about Nardek..."

Alan followed Colby's logic, and looked worriedly at Robin. "You have some other news?"

Robin dropped her arms and crossed the space remaining between her and the gurney. She sat on the other side of Alan. "Don...asked me to stop by the Craftsman, pick up Amita and bring her back to the hospital," she explained.

"Dear Lord," Alan breathed. "Is something wrong with Amita, too?"

Robin reached into her jacket pocket. "I couldn't find her," she admitted, "but I found this. On the kitchen table." She handed a folded piece of paper to Alan. As he unfolded the note, Colby leaned a little closer, so that he could see it as well.

"_Dear Charlie,_" Alan read aloud. "_Please forgive me. The last few months have been too much for me; I need some time to process all that has happened._" Abruptly Alan shoved the note in Colby's direction. "I can't read this," he said.

The agent took the paper and cleared his throat. "_Charlie,_" he continued, _"I don't know who you are, anymore. You keep secrets from me, abuse your medication, shut out all the people in your life, including me...but I still love the man you used to be, the man I hope you still are somewhere inside. I couldn't leave if I didn't know that your father and brother will take care of you, as they always have. Tell Alan 'thank you' for being a father to me; I'm sorry to do this to him too. I hope my leaving doesn't hurt you too much, but I need some time._

_I don't really know how long I will be gone. I will contact you soon._

_Charlie, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry._

_Amita."_

Colby lowered the paper and looked up, stunned.

The room was silent until Robin extended her closed hand to Alan. "This was with the note," she said quietly, opening her hand. Resting in her palm was the beautiful pearl and pink diamond ring that Charlie had presented to Amita when she accepted his marriage proposal.

Alan groaned, squeezed his eyes shut, and began rocking slightly on the gurney. "My poor daughter," he moaned. "What have we done?" He groaned as he thought of Charlie. "My poor _son_!"

Robin quietly slipped the ring back into her pocket and draped an arm around Alan's shoulders. "It will be all right," she soothed. "Amita will be fine. Charlie will be fine. You'll see."

Colby had finally found his voice, but just barely. "Yeah," he agreed, awkwardly patting Alan on the knee. "Everything will work out."

**...**

End, Chapter 29

_**A/N: Fair Warning: Only one chapter left in PD 2; we are currently writing PD 3 and will tie everything up there. Now you must vote: How soon do you want that last, lonely, chapter?**_


	30. Chapter 30: Fallout

**Perception Deception Part 2: Audrey**

**by Rabid Raccoons**

**Chapter 30: Fallout**

**…**

Charlie's left arm was heavily bandaged at the site of the original - now damaged - dialysis port. A new port was placed in his left arm; dialysis was restarted and continued throughout the night. Just before midnight, Robin enlisted back-up among the doctors and nurses on staff, and with their aid, both Don and Alan were bullied into going home. Charlie was still very ill, and they wouldn't know for a few days what sort of organ damage, if any, he had suffered; but three different hospitalists assured his father and brother that the professor's life was no longer in immediate danger. Finally, Don accompanied Alan to the Craftsman, both of them bundled into a cab by an insistent Robin; the agent grumbled along the way to the house that if Colby hadn't already been called out to a crime scene, the two of them would no doubt have been forced into the taxi at gunpoint.

Alan let his son rant and sat silently beside him. Truth be told, it had been a long day, full of emotional highs and desperate lows, and he was exhausted. After he had received saline in the ER and choked down half a sandwich in the cafeteria, Alan had thought he was good for the duration. But by the time Robin decided that he and Don both needed to go home and get some decent rest, he was somewhat embarrassed at the relief he felt. That relief was tempered with ever-present guilt, and worry. Still, he had probably given up too easily. Ordinarily Don wouldn't have needed Alan's support in order to take a stand and make his own decisions - but his eldest son was exhausted himself, as well as in considerable pain. Don had endured surgery just the day before! So Alan also started feeling guilty about letting Don stay as long as he had. Once they reached the Craftsman, Alan all but tucked Don into his old bed - something Don would never have allowed if he was feeling better. Alan talked Don into taking his pain medication - at least half a dose - and Don drifted off to sleep almost immediately. Alan stood in the room and watched him for a while, until he started swaying on his feet. Finally, he went down the hall to his own room, where he tossed and turned in his bed for almost an hour before finally drifting into a troubled sleep filled with dreams populated by Don, Charlie, Amita - even Margaret.

Early that morning, just a few hours after going to sleep, Alan got out of his bed. Even though his time there had not been what could honestly be called restful, he did feel physically better. After checking on Don, who was still down for the count, thank the Lord, Alan busied himself in the kitchen. He made coffee (remarkably, the smell did not bring Don stumbling down the stairs). He made a pot of oatmeal, dished himself up a healthy portion, covered the oatmeal with raisins and sliced bananas, and ate a good breakfast - trying not to stare at the empty chairs at his kitchen table. He hoped Amita was having a good breakfast, somewhere. Don loved oatmeal, so at least one son would eat well this morning. In the end, Alan sighed before pushing himself up out of his chair and trudging back up the stairs to check on Don again.

His cell phone rang just as Alan left Don's room and headed back down the stairs, and he spent some time sitting on the couch and talking to Robin. She was calling to report that Charlie had passed a good night, and to check on Don. Alan thanked her for staying with Charlie at the hospital, talked her into coming to the Craftsman for breakfast, and had a half-formed plan before the call ended. Within fifteen minutes of Robin's call, Alan had checked to make sure the stove was off, moved the oatmeal to a back burner, scribbled a hasty note and made a break for the back door, grabbing the keys to Charlie's Prius, since his own car was still at the hospital. He hesitated for a few moments as he was backing out of the driveway, looking back towards the house. Don was fine, he assured himself, fast asleep. A good breakfast waited for him, and a good woman was driving toward the house even now. Robin would take care of Don.

Alan checked both ways for traffic, and backed into the street.

**...**

For the second time since J. Everett Tuttle started this whole mess, Colby Granger came to the office early - way early. What he was about to do wasn't exactly illegal, so he hadn't come in early to avoid detection, this time. Today, he had come in early because he couldn't sleep anyway...and, truth be told, he'd just as soon avoid being around David right now. Sinclair's announcement that he was accepting a position in D.C. had hit Colby like a punch to the gut. Sure, Dave had been sniping like a jealous fishwife for a while now, but Colby had thought his friend would eventually get over it. Granger had even planned to do some damage control, once the crisis was over; he missed the disappearing closeness and trust of their partnership. Their _friendship_, he had thought.

He sighed, then snorted, while he sat at his desk waiting for access to the TSA system. He had obviously taken too much for granted, pushed David too far, waited too long to fix things. When the crisis was over? What the hell was he thinking? The crisis was _never_ over for an FBI agent; and for a mild-mannered math geek, Charlie experienced more than his fair share of crises as well. A login screen appeared on the computer, and Colby typed in his access code and password, not even trying to cover his tracks. If Wright, or anybody else, questioned him about this, he had good reason for his search. A federal consultant lay critically ill in the hospital; his fiancée - another federal consultant - had disappeared, during a time when at least one bad guy was still on the loose. Yes, there had been a note; but who could say it was legitimate? It was entirely reasonable to wonder if Dr. Amita Ramanujan had been taken somewhere against her will. In fact, knowing Amita, it was almost easier to believe that scenario than it was to believe that she had left Charlie intentionally.

Colby navigated first to the LAX passenger roster for the last 24 hours. He shook his head. Damn, LAX was a busy place. Where did all these people come from, anyway? He clicked on "R" to narrow his search, and began scrolling. It didn't take long. Colby leaned back and swiveled the chair slightly as he tented his hands in front of his chest and rested his chin on his forefingers. It seemed Amita hadn't been too worried about covering her tracks, either. She had boarded a flight to Geneva, as a single traveler. Larry, Colby remembered, had flown into Geneva when he left to join the particle-something research team at CERN. Colby also remembered that Amita had been working with Larry on the research that had earned him the CERN invitation; no doubt, she would be welcome at CERN herself.

Colby stretched out a hand to log off the system. He had found the information he both wanted, and dreaded. The note was legit. Amita had left Charlie of her own accord - and now, someone had to tell him.

**...**

Alan focused on Charlie's bandaged arm and listened to his son breathe. The ICU nurse had assured him that Charlie was improving - due to be moved back to a regular room later that day, in fact - but Alan had a hard time believing her. Charlie's breathing still sounded entirely too loud, too...strained, difficult. He had an oxygen canula, rather than the breathing tube he had had the night before, so there must have been significant improvement, even if it didn't sound that way to Alan. The poor boy's body looked as if he had been run over by a truck: he was literally covered with painful-looking bruises, in every color of the rainbow. Even in sleep, his face was lined with pain. It was difficult to look at him - so Alan looked instead at the white bandage on his arm. Alan wanted to touch his son, but was afraid to cause him more pain. He spent his entire allotted fifteen-minute visit standing stock still near the door, watching the bandage on Charlie's arm.

During the hour he spent in the cafeteria waiting for his next visit and consuming more coffee, Alan fielded a call from a very angry Don. His eldest insisted that Alan should have either waited for him or woken him up, so that they could return to the hospital together. Alan apologized, but found that he couldn't adequately explain his visceral need to be with Charlie. He didn't want Don to feel as if he was coming in second behind his brother - God knew Don had spent enough time during his life dealing with that - but Alan had needed to see for himself that Charlie was still with them. That Charlie would live long enough for him to apologize for things he didn't really remember saying, careless words that had damaged his son more than Ralph Nardek and his baseball bat had. Don eventually calmed down, even agreeing to wait until Charlie was moved back to a regular room to let Robin drive him back to the hospital. When Alan came close to tears fretting about Don's own health, Don reluctantly acquiesced to at least a few more hours of Robin-supervised recuperation.

When Alan entered Charlie's ICU room for his second 15-minute visit, he was surprised and thrilled to find his son staring right at him. Alan smiled brightly and hurried to the side of the bed. "Son! What a relief to see you awake!"

Charlie's voice was raspier than normal, but Alan easily understood him. "Wha' 'appen?"

"You'll be fine," Alan hedged. "You had a little setback, but everything's under control now."

Charlie's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Alan picked up a cup of ice chips from the bedside table. "Would you like some ice chips?" he asked. When Charlie nodded, Alan spooned a few chips into his mouth, then stood ready to offer more.

"Thanks," Charlie said after the ice had melted down his throat. "I just had some, but my throat..."

Alan winced. "I'm sure it's painful. You needed one of those breathing tubes for a while. More?"

"Not now," Charlie answered, moving his head slightly on the pillow so that he could look around the room. Finally, he looked back at his father and spoke almost apologetically. "Can't see very good. Can you bring my glasses?"

"Of course," Alan answered. "I'm sorry, we should have thought. I'll call Don and ask him to bring them when he comes by this afternoon. Are they still in the bag you take to school?"

"Mmmm." Charlie murmured around a yawn, then grinned at Alan. "Sorry. Should be, yeah." Alan smiled, but didn't get a chance to respond before Charlie spoke again. "Is 'Mita with you?" Alan stalled. He made a show of setting the cup of ice back onto the table top. "Prob'ly school," Charlie answered himself. "Mus' be a mess...Larry an' I both gone..."

Alan latched onto the idea as if it was a life preserver and he was a man in a raging sea. "I'm sure it is," he said heartily. He changed the subject as quickly as he could. "Did the nurse explain to you that you'll be moved back to a regular room later today? I'm only allowed to visit you here in the ICU for fifteen minutes every hour."

Charlie had been close to drifting off to sleep, but now his eyes widened in shock. "I'm in ICU?"

Alan nodded. "Yes, but not for much longer."

Charlie looked worried. "Is Don ok?" he asked. "I can't remember..."

Alan couldn't stand it any longer; he had to touch his son. He brushed light fingers over Charlie's non-bandaged arm. 'Never mind, son," he soothed. "You've been quite ill, so I'm not surprised. Your brother is fine. He's home resting right now - it's still very early - but he and Robin will be here to see you later today."

Charlie seemed to settle into the bed a little. "He's ok?" he repeated.

"I'm your father," Alan answered. "Would I lie to you? Don is fine. I promise."

Charlie was silent, but a myriad of emotions played across his face. Finally he simply said, "Good."

Alan thought about what he had said - and could have kicked himself. In essence, he had just told Charlie that he meant whatever he said; _everything_ he said - including certain painful things he didn't even remember saying. "Son," he began, but the door slid open and a nurse poked her head into the room.

"Time's up, Mr. Eppes," she announced.

Alan whipped his head around, stricken. "What? Already?"

The nurse smiled at him, and tilted her head toward the bed. "I'm afraid so. Besides, it looks like your son is asleep."

Alan looked back at Charlie; indeed, his eyes were closed. Alan almost jumped out of his skin when Charlie spoke, a trifle petulantly. "Not sleepin'", he protested. "Izzare a phone in 'ere?"

Alan glanced around before answering. "I think so."

Charlie's eyes slit open. "Can you 'elp me call 'Mita?"

Alan stared at him, a deer caught in the headlights, and the nurse's voice floated past him. "I'm sorry, that's not an outside line," she said. "That phone just goes to the nursing station."

Again, Alan grabbed the life preserver. "That's fine," he said, smiling at Charlie. "You're sleepy, and I'm getting kicked out anyway." He leaned over to kiss Charlie briefly on the forehead. "I'll be back in an hour, son. Get some rest."

Then Alan straightened, turned, and fled the ICU.

**...**

Trina Watson sat in the office of Bill James, Esquire, and wondered exactly when she had lost her mind.

In the last few days, she had blown off a job she had held for years. She had left Bear with a dog sitter and had torn upstate like a crazy woman to be with a former patient; a patient who had not asked her to come; a patient who just happened to be a paraplegic; a patient that everyone, until very recently, had believed was comatose. A patient she was willing to change everything for.

How in the hell did that happen?

"Miss Watson?" The attorney's voice finally filtered through the fog and Trina started guiltily.

"What? I'm sorry...it's been an...overwhelming...week."

James smiled and spoke gently. "I'm sure it has. I asked if you were sure you want to do this. Perhaps you should take some more time to think about it."

Trina nearly agreed with him - and then the Movie of Mark played through her mind again. All the months she had been his nurse in San Francisco, months when she was the only one who believed there was someone in the shell, months he endured without visits, or even personal mail. His sister would blast in once a year, at most; Trina had been heartbroken and surprised when Audrey had informed the nursing home that she was moving Mark and would care for him herself. Mark had been trapped; first by his own body, then by his own sister. He had been betrayed by them both. No one would blame him for being bitter...but now that he had found a voice, Mark had spent hours painstakingly composing messages about others in his situation. He wanted to help; he wanted to spread the gospel of life after brain injury.

He wanted to be with Trina.

Oh, he was still afraid to ask - but she could tell. Mark had settled for making the conversation all about work: would she consider moving to L.A., and running a foster home for a handful of patients in his newly conceived program? Audrey's house was his, now; in a gargantuan twist of fate, his sister's own brain injury had left her truly comatose, and unable to handle her own affairs. Her attorney had visited Mark's hospital room while Trina was there, with some startling information. There was a clause in the home ownership contract. Although it was difficult to understand what had led Audrey to put the clause in, the fact was that in the case of her death or permanent disability, home ownership reverted to Mark. The trust Audrey had been using to pay for his care could also be accessed to pay the home's taxes; or, the house could be sold, and the proceeds put into the trust. The house was large, and the downstairs was already "gimp-ready", as Mark had typed. He wanted to turn it into a foster facility. Mark had also typed that the upstairs could be a private apartment, for a live-in house manager. "House mgr should be nurse," he typed. "We'll need nurse. You?"

Trina had thought about it long enough to talk to the researchers from the Omega Research Group, the think tank that had run Mark's own study. They had been thrilled with the idea, even offering to pay her a salary to manage the home and make her nursing skills available to several of the program's most promising patients. By 7 p.m. on the day after Audrey's attorney had shown up in Mark's hospital room, Trina had faxed the nursing home her resignation and hired a moving service to pack up her apartment in San Francisco and bring everything - including Bear, who was about to become a therapy dog - to L.A.

Two whirlwind days later, she sat in the office of Mark's new attorney, establishing herself as the new executor of his estate, starting the process of legally establishing his competency, and setting up the new Vincent Brain Injury Research Foundation. Her head alternated between spinning and threatening to float off her neck, but Trina absolutely knew one thing.

She smiled brightly at Bill James, Esquire, and leaned forward a little in her chair. "I've wasted enough of my life just thinking about things," she answered. "This is where I belong. Let's do it."

**...**

"It's been almost 24 hours since Charlie was moved back to a regular room, Dad." Don and Robin sat with Alan in the small visitors' lounge just a few feet from Charlie's room. "We managed to change the subject every time, but he's asking about her a lot. We've got to tell him."

Alan refused to even look at his son, choosing instead to study his own shoes.

Robin exchanged a glance with Don and then quietly entered the conversation. "Alan, he's awake and alert more and more. He really does have to be told."

Alan finally looked up. "I just want him stronger. Healthier."

"He can never be strong enough for this news, Dad," Don observed.

More gently, Robin added an alternative. "Don's not 100 percent yet himself, and I'd like to get him settled into his apartment so he can rest. I was going to go to the office for a few hours this afternoon, but if you want, I can come back by here first. We can tell him together."

Alan smiled at her tenderly. "Thank you dear. I appreciate how much you've done for us already, and how well you're taking care of Don." He sighed, and rose slowly to his feet. "But that's not necessary," he added, looking down at them. "I know you're both right. Charlie deserves the truth. I'll take care of it." He leaned to kiss Robin on the cheek, and patted Don on the shoulder. "I'll see you later," he said. He started to leave, then stopped to wink at Robin. "Take him to the house, please; at least for one more night."

"I will," she promised, standing and reaching down to tug Don to his feet.

Alan hugged each of them, watched them leave, and then walked slowly toward Charlie's room. He stood in the hallway outside the door for a moment to brace himself, then pushed the door open and entered the room smiling. "I thought you'd be asleep again, son!" He walked to the bed and leaned to brush his lips across Charlie's forehead; then he settled into a large, upholstered chair just a few feet away. "Don said you were up for a couple of hours this morning!"

"Fell asleep in the chair," mumbled Charlie.

Alan laughed. "Well. It's a very comfortable chair - I don't blame you." He settled into the chair a little more. "I wonder if we can get one of these for the house?"

Charlie smiled. "Let's not," he suggested.

Alan's own smile faded. "Charlie." He waited until his son was looking at him. "I have some things to say."

Charlie looked both curious and apprehensive. "Dad?"

Alan leaned toward the bed. "I've been wanting to talk to you about this for quite some time. Don…Don told me that I said some things to you, after his injuries. The stabbing, and then the fall down the stairs." The expression on Charlie's face became closed, but Alan went on. "He thinks that _you_ think I'm angry with you – that I blame you."

Charlie trained his eyes on the ceiling above him. "Why not? It was my fault."

Alan wanted to place his hand on Charlie's arm, but was afraid his touch would not be welcome. "No," he answered forcefully. "That's not true, in either situation. Charlie, I'm ashamed to admit to you that I honestly don't remember what I said. I was careless with my words, and those words hurt you. _I_ hurt you."

Charlie visibly swallowed, but did not respond. Alan continued. "No man should cause his own child pain; for that, I am truly sorry. I love you, son, more every day of your life. One thing I know - you love your brother. You gave up everything to be with your brother last summer; your work, your home, even the sight in one eye. In my heart, I know you would never intentionally hurt Don - and if I said things that caused you to believe otherwise, I am sorry. That was wrong of me, and I apologize. Will you forgive me?"

Charlie slowly rotated his head on the pillow until he faced Alan again. "No."

Alan nearly fell out of the chair, and the shock he felt was plain on his face. _"What?_"

Charlie's smile was a little wobbly. "I know that you love me, Dad. I know that you love Don; you were scared out of your mind. You don't need to ask for forgiveness."

"That's an excuse," Alan interrupted. "I won't excuse bad behavior from myself any more than I would from you."

Charlie's smile became stronger. "All right, all right. If it makes you feel better, I forgive you. Can we just move on?"

In spite of Charlie's almost flippant response, Alan could see the emotion in his son's eyes – warmth, relief, and love – and he smiled and settled back into the chair. "Of course. Thank you. That's all I wanted. Would you like to watch some television?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I hate that thing," he complained, then changed the subject with no warning. "Has Amita been ill? I know she's probably inundated at CalSci, but I'm surprised she hasn't come by. Maybe I've slept through her visits, or phone calls?"

Alan felt his heart drop. Five minutes. All he has been hoping for was five minutes, to prepare himself for this.

Charlie could read his face like...like a son who had been reading his father's face his entire life. "Dad?" he whispered.

He would hate himself for his weakness for the rest of his life, but Alan couldn't do it. Slowly, he opened the book he had brought with him and removed what Charlie had assumed was a book mark. He passed Amita's note over the hospital bed bars. "She left this," he said simply.

Charlie looked at him questioningly, then opened the note and brought it up to within a few inches of his face. Alan discovered that he could feel even worse than he already did; how could be forget about Charlie's eyesight? That was yet one more heart-wrenching bit of fallout from the frightening series of events his sons had been through – and Alan knew that Amita's decision would be another. He reached for the note. "I'll read it," he offered.

Charlie's hands were shaking, but he gripped the paper more tightly. "I got it," he said.

Alan withdrew his hand, eventually placing both hands in his lap and sitting quietly until Charlie brought the note away from his face and let the paper slip through his hands and flutter to the surface of the bed. "She's gone?"

Alan blinked a few times. "I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "Colby found out that she was on a flight bound for Geneva."

Charlie was staring at the ceiling again. "She went to CERN."

"Probably," Alan agreed. "She just needs some time. She loves you, Charlie. I believe that."

His eyes tracked the single tear rolling down Charlie's face, headed toward his ear. He almost didn't hear his son's response.

"I used to believe that too."

**...**

End, _Perception Deception Part 2 – Audrey_

Coming soon to a fandom near you: _Perception Deception Part 3_ _– Tuttle_. Will Amita give up on Charlie and become a Swiss Alps mountaineer? Will Don and Robin continue to grow closer, or will circumstances wedge them apart? What does J. Everett Tuttle plan for his final showdown with the Brothers Eppes? Will David find his absolution in Washington, and will Colby ever get over losing his partner? Will Serialgal and FraidyCat ever stop writing in the _Numbers_ universe?

(Umm, "no" to that last one.) Stay tuned for Part 3.


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